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xr., No. 19. 


March 24, 1894. Subscription Price, 


BY 


HENRY GREVIL 


Specially translated for “ Once a Week Library"" by 

E. P. ROBINS 


led Semi-Monthly. Entered at the Post-Office at TTew Tort as second-class matter. 

>ETER E’ENELON COLEIER. Publishep.. 523 W. 13th St., E.Y. 




Pears’ Soap does noth- 
ing but cleanse ; it has 
no medical properties, but 
brings back health and the 
color of health to many a 
sallow skin. Use it often. 
Give it time. 


AN OLD 

FOLKS’ WOOING 


BY 


HENRY GREVILLE 



Specially translated for “ Once a Week Library ” by 

E. P.* ROBINS 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 13W, by 
Peter Fenelon Collier, 

in the Office of thb’^ librarian of Cot\fresi at V/:.-shiu«:ton. 


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AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


I. 

In a retired corner nean the fireplace, where 
he was equally removed from the danger of be- 
ing run down by the dancers and the risk of 
taking cold from insidious draughts, Fontenoy, 
crush-hat in hand, stood gazing on the phantas- 
magoric spectacle of black coats and gleaming 
shoulders. He was not particularly elated, 
neither was he specially bored by his contem- 
plation of those evolutions wherein he had for 
a long time been a participator, and in which, 
for some years past, he had ceased to figure, un- 
less under constraint and duress. Rare indeed 
are they who waltz for the pleasure of it when 
their fortieth year is past ! Should some minis- 
ter take it in his head to create a special decora- 
tion for them, perhaps we should see an increase 
in the number of waltzers ; but in that event it 
would be for the glory, not for the pleasure of 
the thing. 

‘‘To think that I was that way once!’’ re- 
flected Fontenoy, as he beheld some young men 
when the waltz came to an end surreptitious!/ 

( 3 ) 


4 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


take their handkerchiefs from their pocket and 
slip out into the vestibule to wipe their perspir- 
ing brow. “I have danced — not too madly — 
I have supped — pretty much everywhere — I 
have — ’ ’ 

His retrospective meditation was interrupted 
by a hand laid lightly on his arm. He turned 
to look at the interrupter and discovered him to 
be an old friend. 

‘^What, my dear sir, are you here?” said 
Fontenoy, with as rnuch deference as the place 
and circumstances permitted. The current of 
young people setting in the direction of the 
buffet occasionally backed up against them, 
producing little eddies and whirlpools that 
were the reverse of comfortable; he adroitly 
changed places with Comte Forest, standing 
before him and affording him a measure of 
protection. 

“Did you think, because I have selected as 
the refuge of my old age a spot less crowded 
than the Boulevard Malesherbes, that I had 
turned hermit out and out? I live at Cerisy, 
I admit, although the locality is not of the 
most fashionable; but during the months of 
January and February I am to be met with 
in the world — I have not entirely renounced 
its pomps and vanities, althciugh I am no longer 
an active sharer in its labors. And you, how 
do you spend. your time?” 

“I am a looker-on,” Fontenoy replied; “I 
watch the dancers — and I watch people live.” 

“You live too, so I’m told, and don’t find 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


5 


life such a very heavy burden,” said Forest, 
scrutinizing his friend from the corner of an 
eye that was bright and restless as a bird’s. 
“I saw Mme. Fontenoy just now; she is hand- 
some as an angel — I congratulate you.” 

Fontenoy bowed with the air of a man to 
whom the compliment was an old story; no 
one ever conversed with him for five minutes 
in a ball-room without alluding to the beauty 
of his wife. The stream of men and women 
had grown thinner and thinner and finally 
dribbled out; the spacious room appeared still 
more spacious in its emptiness; here and there 
lay scattered on the floor a strip of tulle, bits 
of lace and ribbon, a flower that had graced 
some corsage; the electric lights shed their im- 
partial light upon all these things and on a few 
dejected young men who had been unable to 
force an entrance to the supper-room. 

“Let!s sit down,” said the Comte; ‘‘my legs 
are conscious of their burden of seventy-two 
years, and I don’t know why it is that they 
tire more quickly on the waxed floor than on 
our woodland paths. How young you look, 
Fontenoy — positively you do! It is astonish- 
ing! And yet — no one can hear us — you dis- 
closed the date of your birth on the day when 
I had the pleasure of acting as witness at your 
marriage. That was nineteen years ago. You 
were thirty then, my young friend ; that makes 
you forty-nine to-day. You can own up to 
forty and not be afraid; no one will think of 
adding more than +vvo or three years.” 


6 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


“What difference does it make?” Fontenoy 
murmured with an absent air. 

‘ ‘ Eh ! it makes a great difference, my young 
friend, particularly as we begin to grow old. I 
say we; it is merely a manner of expressing my- 
self. What a pity it is that your children did 
not live ! You would have to-day a marriageable 
daughter and a son about graduating from col- 
lege. That would steady you and give you some- 
thing to think about.” 

Fontenoy checked an incipient yawn. The 
old bore ! a fine time he had selected for deliv- 
ering his lecture ! 

“You have enjoyed yourself, Fontenoy; you 
have had a good time. I am not blaming you 
for it, understand ; but there comes a time when, 
if we wish to make old bones, we must give up 
enjoying ourselves — so as not to add to the en- 
joyment of others. The transition is not agree- 
able; it comes hard. I settled the queS^tion by 
going to live in the country. The remedy was 
heroic, you tnow ! But I was an old bachelor ; 
for a married man there are more difficulties in 
the way.” 

Fontenoy listened more attentively. He felt 
that Forest was right ; but there are truths that 
we do not like to hear. We tolerate them some- 
times, but only in the privacy of our own minds, 
where we handle them very tenderly, on rainy 
days or after a night of bad luck at cards. 

“The first white hair,” Forest went on, 
“amounts to nothing at all; we pluck it out 
and say to ourselves: ‘K-ature has strange 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


7 


freaks sometimes ! ’ and think no more of it. 
But when we find a whole grove of them grow- 
ing on our head we do not dismiss the matter 
so lightly. And that is not so bad as to lose 
all your hair. When I was sixty I had to pro- 
vide myself with a little ‘head- warmer’ — not 
out of vanity, I beg you to believe, but I was 
continually taking cold, and as I value my 
precious life — You will never have need of 
that, though! Your crop is pepper-and-salt, 
but it is superb ! You look like one of Clouet’s 
portraits with your square- trimmed beard and 
your hair en brosse / ’ ’ 

Fontenoy smiled ; while one may not be a cox- 
comb, a truth from the lips of a friend is never 
disagreeable. 

“You and your wife are an extremely good- 
looking pair; your portraits would look well 
hung as pendants in a gallery. What a pretty 
girl Mile. Edmee de Pressac was the day you 
conducted her to the altar ! She made a picture 
that one does not soon forget. And charming 
withal, distinguished in mind and person, and 
so amiable! You were singularly blessed, dear 
sir, in making a marriage of expediency, which 
was at the same time a marriage of love. You 
will have gathered all the flowers of life. But 
here come the men, maids and matrons, with 
re-enforcements ; they are going to abandon them- 
selves to saltatory exercise, and I am going to 
bed. Good-night. ’ ’ 

He gave his hand to Fontenoy, who retained 
it in his own. 


8 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


‘‘Will you come and dine with us some day?” 
he asked. 

“Certainly; provided it is a family dinner, or 
at least a very small one. And then you must 
know that I don’t make a point of truffles. I 
have eaten such quantities of them in my time 
that to-day I believe I would rather have a 
potato. Pardon a woodman’s bluntness.” 

The old man vanished, leaving his friend in a 
somewhat troubled frame of mind. When we 
are young the idea of old age does not obtrude 
itself on us, or if it does the image is so dimmed 
and blurred by the mists of the remote future 
that its impression is fleeting and unsubstantial. 
But when we have passed our second youth and 
-are approaching the third, although it may be 
dispiriting to reflect that the time is at hand 
when we shall have no youth at all, there are 
occasions when we are forced to look this dis- 
agreeable contingency in the face. When one 
is alone he dismisses it as best he can ; but let it 
be propounded by some one else with its hard, 
confirmatory facts, and the idea takes possession 
of one and refuses to be exorcised. 

Pontenoy was a sensible man, or very nearly 
so. He had no raw head and bloody bones to 
disturb his peace of mind. He knew that he 
must grow old, like every one else, and that, on 
the whole, this was probably the best thing that 
could happen him. He therefore made a mental 
promise to give this strange conversation fur- 
ther consideration at some future time. The 
present moment was hardly propitious to reflec- 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


9 


tion of any kind ; for the crowd had come back 
and resumed possession of the room, and the 
hospitable corner which had afforded him shelter 
earlier in the evening was now occupied by a 
fat, bald-headed gentleman with gold-bowed 
spectacles, who was inquisitively scrutinizing 
every one in his vicinity. All at once, Fonte- 
noy perceived that he was unusually fatigued. 
What could be the cause of it? Was it the 
games of billiards he had played before coming 
there, or his horseback ride of the afternoon? or 
was it because he had not got to bed until four 
o’clock that morning? But that was nothing 
more than the ordinary round of his daily occu- 
pations, and they had never caused him any in- 
convenience before — a slight momentary sensa- 
tion of fatigue on rising, maybe, that was 
quickly put to flight by the cold bath and a 
few minutes’ exercise with the dumb-bells. 

“I’ve a great mind to go home,” he said to 
himself; “if Edmee don’t mind we’ll leave.” 

He looked to right and left, and finally dis- 
covered his wife — the center of a group — seated 
near a pillar and overarched by a cluster of tall 
palms. 

“ True as gospel, she was never prettier in her 
life!” he murmured to himself, contemplating 
her admiringly. “And yet she has thirty-eight 
years to her account, even as I have forty-nine. 
We are a well-preserved couple!” 

He smiled — a not particularly happy smile it 
was — at his own conceit, and bent his steps 
toward Mine. Fontenoy. 


10 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


Mme. Fontenoy was conversing, not without 
animation, but with the placidity of a woman 
who, during four or five months of the year, has 
accomplished these social observances for two 
lustrums ; which gives the very respectable 
total of, say, two thousand evenings “out,” 
due allowance being made for time lost by ill- 
ness and other unavoidable causes. Unless a 
woman, by reason of qualities inherent in her- 
self, finds society particularly attractive, she is 
apt to discover that pleasures of this nature pall 
after being exercised for such length of time. 
Therefore Mme. Fontenoy, seeing her husband 
coming toward her, rose and prepared to go with 
him. 

“Where is Juliette?” he asked. 

“Over there with the young girls. Shall I go 
and fetch her?” 

“If you v/ill be so kind.” 

But Juliette had seen them talking and came 
to them. 

“Together, you? Oh, that is a very bad 
sign,” said she. “When my uncle and my 
aunt are seen together, you may be sure that 
they have either just come or are just going 
away. And I have promised to dance the 
cotilion!” 

Fontenoy was in a quandary. He did not 
like to disappoint Juliette, whom he loved and 
petted as if she had been a bright-colored, 
graceful bird ; but, on the other hand, his 
fatigue was increasing and threatened to be- 
come insupportable. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


11 


‘‘Auntie,” the young lady entreated, “ my 
dear, good aunt, I beseech you ! don’t condemn 
your naughty niece to go to bed yet. ’ ’ 

“With whom do you dance the cotilion?” 
asked Mrne. Fontenoy. 

“With little Descrosses. I know very well 
that there is neither money nor glory to be 
gained, auntie,” said Juliette in a low voice, 
and with a delicious smile that parted her red 
lips somewhat obliquely over her regular white 
teeth. “It’s just for the fun there’s in it! He 
is so amusing ! Have pity on a poor girl who 
is working hard to secure a husband and doesn’t 
have a good time every night!” 

Mme. Fontenoy was unable to resist such an 
appeal. “Well, my friend,” said she, addressing 
her husband, “do you go home without me. I 
will take Juliette home, and Francois will be 
sufficient protection for me. Only please don’t 
forget to send the carriage back.” 

Two hours later, while conducting Juliette 
home to Mme. Chassagny’s, her aunt could not 
resist the desire, natural enough in a chaperon, 
to learn whether “little Descrosses’ ” position 
toward the young girl was exactly what she had 
stated it to be. Girls are such strange creat- 
ures! and the little blind god sometimes shoots 
his arrows where you would least expect it. 
That Descrosses was not on the eligible list 
was a fact universally submitted. He v/as 
twenty-seven years old, possessed an income 
of six thousand francs, and was entirely des- 
titute of talent or aptitude for any of the pro- 


12 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


fessions. That is, of those professions which 
giv^e a man standing and authorize him to as- 
pire to a great fortune by marriage. Descrosses 
was a lawyer, but he would never again address 
a jury: his first case had finished him. 

His client was a poor devil indicted for burg- 
lary. It was the opportunity of a lifetime! the 
young lawyer said. With no foundation to build 
on he reared a most extraordinary rhetorical 
structure, bristling at every point with fun and 
paradox and every sort of ridiculous and irrele- 
vant ornament; the general effect being that of 
a display of fireworks on which rain has fallen 
and the various pieces of which go off when 
least expected, now with a bang, now with a 
sulphurous fizz and sputter, driving the arti- 
ficers to shelter, spreading consternation among 
the spectators, and bringing the fete to an un- 
timely end. Never in the memory of man had 
the Palais resounded with such merriment; the 
president alleged a violent cold in the head as 
an excuse for keeping his handkerchief con- 
stantly before the judicial face. The prisoner 
himself squirmed and wriggled on his bench 
Between his hilarious guardians. The perora- 
tion elicited a storm of bravos and applause such 
as is never heard save in the playhouses; but M. 
Joseph Prudhomme does not care to be amused 
outside the temple of Melpomene. The young 
lawyer’s harangue was voted flippant and imper- 
tinent. It is not permissible to ridicule the vices 
and miseries of a social state which, etc. To make 
a long story short, thanks to a cross-grained and 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


13 


punctilious attorney-general and to a jury that 
took an unusually serious view of its duties, the 
unlucky burglar received the maximum penalty 
awarded by the law. 

‘‘ What a success!” said Descrosses’s friends, 
•‘for a beginner.” 

“Yes,” replied M. Joseph Prudhomme, “it is 
his first case, but it is also his last.” 

He was quickly made to understand this. The 
imprudent man, with his keen wit and trench- 
ant sallies, had mowed his harvest of glory be- 
fore it was ripe; prospective clients, seeing that 
he had no standing with the court, carried their 
cases to other lawyers, men of less brilliancy but 
more solidity. Descrosses husbanded what repu- 
tation he had gained and waited. 

“Some of these days,” said he, “the world 
will get over being stupid and tiresome, and 
then I’ll make a figure in the magistracy. 
What a president of assizes I would make! 
People wouldn’t go to sleep in my court-room, 
I warrant you!” 

“You began too early,” Comte Forest, who 
had long known his family, said to him one 
day. “You forgot the story of Sixtus Y., my 
young friend; and yet what a lesson is that 
which the grand old man has handed down to 
us! to hide our light to-day in order that it 
may shine with glorious brilliancy to-morrow. 
Why don’t you set up as a consulting lawyer?” 
suggested his venerable mentor. 

“The thing is not to be thought of. A man 


14 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


must be bom to that, don’t you see; and I was 
born for something quite different.” 

“For what, pray?” 

“That’s just where the trouble is! I don’t 
know. Perhaps to paint like Daumier; only my 
talent has never been cultivated, and, I’m too old 
now to enter the Ecole des Beaux- Arts. I never 
could do much with a pencil. I think I’ll be a 
professional leader of the German. That will 
probably keep down my superfluous flesh while 
I am young.” 

Calling to mind these well known traits of 
Descrosses’s character, it seemed clear to Mme. 
Fontenoy that such an aggregate was not likely 
to arouse any very tender sentiments in her 
niece’s bosom, and still — 

“Did you find your partner in the cotilion as 
amusing as ever to-night?” she asked, just as 
the carriage was drawing up in front of Mme. 
Chassagny’s door. 

“I nearly cried my eyes out laughing, auntie. 
I’m sure I don’t know where he picks up all his 
yarns. And then he is not a bad-hearted fellow, 
either; it’s incredible!” 

“He ought to have something to make up for 
that in which he is deficient.” 

“Do you mean that he is ugly? Do you 
really consider him ugly, auntie? He has such 
an intelligent face! Here we are. Thanks, my 
dear aunt; it was angelically good of you to 
waste half your night cn me. We’ll make it 
up to you when mamma gets well.” 

She planted a kiss on Mme. Fontenoy’s cheek. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


15 


Jamped lightly to the curb, barely grazing with 
her fingers the sleeve of the tall footman, and 
disappeared. 

“I am not so very much the wiser after all,” 
Edmee reflected as she drove away. “The only 
thing calculated to throw any light on the sub- 
ject is the freedom with which the girl spoke of 
that merry-andrew. But what does that prove? 
Juliette is not like other girls.” 


II. 

On the morning after the soiree, Fabien 
Malvois awoke with a vague impression of 
something forgotten that should have been 
attended to, something extremely urgent and 
important; one of those impressions that haunt 
a man ail day and destroy his pleasure. He 
jumped from his bed to the floor precipitately, 
as if about to run for a train, slipped on his 
dressing-gown with feverish haste, threw back 
his curtains and gave a look at the leaden sky 
that threatened snow, then stopped and began 
to think. 

“I would like to know why I am hurrying 
like this,” he said to himself. “I have nothing 
BO pressing on hand for this morning. But 
what can it be that I neglected yesterday?” 

The glance that he cast about the chamber 
rested on his dress-coat, its button-hole decked 
with a faded flower, which told him nothing. 


16 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


He had passed a pleasant evening with friends 
at the theater, and had finished up the night 
at a restaurant famed for its excellent suppers. 
There was nothing strange in that; it was not 
the first time, and would not be the last. 

‘‘But what can I have forgotten?” Fabien 
asked himself as he crossed over to his dressing- 
room, “I was not tipsy, I did not touch a card 
— and I was in by half-past three o’clock, which 
is a very respectable hour. What had I to do? 
for I certainly had something to do.” 

The faculty of thought was suspended for a 
minute or two while he was under the salu- 
brious influence of the shower-bath. The valet’s 
duties were restricted to brushing his master’s 
clothes, and the friction that he inflicted on 
himself occupied him entirely. As he was re- 
turning to his bedroom — warmed and cooled at 
the same time — his eyes lighted on the corner 
of a square of bristol board, half-buried under a 
pile of newspapers of the day before. He took 
it, looked at it, and threw it down disgustedly. 

“ I knew very well I had forgotten something. 
It was that ball — that long-talked-of ball at 
Mme. de Classens’ — which I had promised to 
attend, and where my dear cousin Fontenoy was 
to present me to a niece of his, or of his wife’s 
— I don’t know which; at all events, a charm- 
ing young lady with a handsome dowry. And 
to think that it slipped my mind entirely — 
entirely! ” 

With an expression of deep contrition on his 
face he reckoned up the visits that his heedless- 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


17 


ness would cost him : one to Madame de Clas- 
sens, one to the person who had presented him 
to her, one to his cousin Fontenoy — who would 
present him to his wife — and one to Mme. Fon- 
tenoy, when she should have accorded him per- 
mission to show himself in her salon : in all, 
four. And he might have spared himself at 
least half the number by a slight exercise of 
memory. 

“It is not so very bad, after all; a little disa- 
greeable exertion will set things straight,” said 
Fabien to himself; for he did not like to remain 
longer than he could help under the influence of 
unpleasant thoughts. “And first for my cousin 
Fontenoy, for it is he who has most right to feel 
offended.” 

A short while after breakfast Fabien, dressed 
in the newest style and faultlessly cravated, 
shod and gloved, sent in his card, and was 
received with the greatest affability. He was 
too discreet to make confession of his faulty 
memory, for that would have been an unpardon- 
able blunder against the usages of good society; 
but pleaded instead as his excuse a business en- 
gagement of the highest importance. 

Fontenoy listened to his tale with an indul- 
gent smile, and when he had finished looked him 
in the eyes without questioning him too closely; 
he knew how much confidence to repose in the 
excuse, having frequently employed it himself. 

“The sum and substance of the matter is that 
you were unable to come,” he said. “I am very 
sorry, but it is only adjourning our pleasure 


18 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


until another day. If you like I will introduce 
you to my wife; we do not dance here, but we 
give a dinner now and then, and sometimes 
have a little music r it comes to pretty much 
the same thing in the end.” 

Having first inquired if Mme. Fontenoy was 
at home, the husband left Fabien alone for a 
moment and went to ask if she would receive 
them. 

‘‘He is a very agreeable young fellow,” said 
he. “We are distant relatives, and his father, 
who was a man much older than I, was my 
friend. He has been abroad a good deal of 
late, but now he wants to settle down in Paris 
and marry. You are always so kind for every- 
one, my dear, I thought you would not refuse 
him your protection.” 

“Bring him in,” Edmee simply replied. 

Notwithstanding Mme. Fontenoy’s reputa- 
tion for beauty, Fabien had not looked forward 
to seeing so pretty, and, still more, so young a 
woman. She had married early in life, and 
consequently had labored under the disadvan- 
tage of having to maintain her prestige over 
a period of twenty years. In place of the ar- 
tistic restoration of a glorious past which he 
had expected to see, the young man was de- 
lighted to find a fair structure of the present 
day, and his attitude expressed, not surprise, 
which would have hardly been polite, but pleas- 
ure, which was becoming and gallant. They 
parted, after a few agreeable speeches had been 
interchanged, well pleased with one another. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


19 


“He’s quite presentable, don’t you think so?” 
said Fontenoy, who had remained in his wife’s 
drawing-room. He was toying with a carved 
ivory paper-cutter, while she had resumed the 
book that she had laid aside on her husband’s 
entrance. 

“He is altogether charming,” she replied in 
her low sweet voice. “How happens it that 
you have never brought him here before?” 

“He had interests in England and was obliged 
to go out to India to settle his affairs. More 
recently he has met with ^afflictions — and has 
come into property.” 

“That accounts for it all,” Edmee calmly 
said. “You wish to find him a wife?” 

“If it be possible.” 

“Well, we’ll arrange a dinner for him.” 

“By the way, my dear, would you object to 
iiiviting our old friend Comte Forest some day? 
Only the party must be a very quiet one. He 
asked it as a favor.” 

A pink flush rose to Edmee’s pale cheeks and 
her eyes sparkled with pleasure. “Our old 
friend Forest? I shall be delighted! Ah, how 
time flies! It is at least ten years since we 
have seen him, except for a casual meeting now 
and then. What a strange thing is society! 
We lose sight of one another and meet again 
after years and years.” 

“Don’t you think it would be a good plan to 
have Forest and Fabien together? With a few 
others to keep them company, of course — your 
niece, for instance.” 


20 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


Edmee’s penetrating look rested for a mo- 
ment on her husband’s tranquil face. ‘‘And 
some young women,” said she; “for women 
are a necessity at a dinner party, and the 
prettier they are the better.” 

“Act as you think best; whatever you do 
cannot fail to please me,” Fontenoy politely 
said. “Suppose you ask the Verseleys?” 

“Very well.” 

“That’s understood, then. I owe an acknowl- 
edgment to Verseley. Are you going out?” 

“Not now; later.” 

“Then I will leave you. Good-by.” 

Very graciously he bent and kissed the pretty 
hand that held the book, then replaced the 
paper-cutter on the table and left the room 
with the jaunty ease of a handsome, rich and 
happy man. When he was gone the volume 
slid gently from her lap to the floor and 
Edmee took no notice, for she had remained 
with eyes riveted on the sumptuous tapestries 
that masked the door through which her hus- 
band had vanished. 

During the space of twenty years he had pre- 
sented to her many men, most of whom were 
agreeable and attractive. She felt it was due 
to him to admit that he had always behaved 
nobly, generously, with a confldence that re- 
flected honor on him. Was it confldence, or 
was it indifference? A little of both, perhaps. 
However that might be, she had always been 
treated by her husband with respect and esteem, 
and even a certain degree of friendship. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


21 


She was conscious of a feeling of profound 
bitterness. She rose to escape her thoughts and 
passed into the adjoining room, which was her 
bedroom ; but she had scarce more than crossed 
the threshold when she turned about and gazed 
straight before her. The opposite door on which 
her eyes rested was that of her husband’s bed- 
room, separated from hers by that little draw- 
ing-room in which most of her time was spent. 
It was through that door, across that drawing- 
room, that he had come to her on their wedding 
night — twenty years ago. 

In those days she had called him Gilbert and 
he had called her Edmee; now she addressed 
him as: ‘‘My friend,” and he responded with: 
“My dear.” They had never had a quarrel, 
nothing more serious than an occasional slight 
tiff, and those — thanks to their good breeding 
and good sense — had never been allowed to go 
very far. They had entered their new life with 
every imaginable worldly blessing, including 
that of a bishop in partibus^ who had solem- 
nized their nuptials; with equal fortunes; that 
fine old mansion where they lived so comforta- 
bly; with beauty, intelligence, honor, troops of 
friends. What would they have more, the 
lucky creatures! They had all those things, 
and in addition, they had love; or, if not love, 
then a very sincere liking for each ether. They 
had had an inexpressibly delightful honeymoon, 
and after that, at intervals of two years, two chil- 
dren, whom they had lost during an epidemic of 
croup, when the poor little things were babies. 


22 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


And then in some way — neither of them could 
have told exactly how — that sorrow which should 
have been the means of bringing them closer to 
each other, served to some extent to part them ; 
perhaps because a mother’s life is bound up in 
her children, while the father feels less deepl}^ 
trials of this nature; perhaps, too, because a 
man’s affliction does not deter him from going 
abroad and pursuing his usual avocations, while 
custom confines a woman to the house. How- 
ever that may be, the ribbon of silk and gold 
which had connected the young couple had 
imperceptibly loosed its knots; it held them 
imprisoned still, but not with its former rigor; 
it would have required but little to make the 
two ends fall asunder, never to be re-united. 

Mme. Fcntenoy continued gazing at the door 
of her husband’s chamber; that and the corre- 
sponding one, the door of her own room, consti- 
tuted the two ends of that nuptial ribbon. The 
tie had never been severed or loosed, because in 
twenty years those doors had never once been 
closed. 

Not once; and yet many a time the young 
wife, chafing under her desertion, had stepped 
forv/ard intending to push the bolt, and who 
shall say that the husband, in his confused sense 
of having done wrong, may not have thought of 
locking himself in to brood over his remorse and 
memories of the past? They had neither of 
them dared to take that decisive step which 
would have been the material evidence of their 
moral separation, and the two doors continued 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


23 


to remain open night and day on the little 
! drawing-room where Edmee spent her time. 

When she was not going out, Fontenoy 
i often came in after dinner for a few minutes’ 
chat with his wife before paying his customary 
visit to the club. He would tell her of what was 
I going on in the great world outside, while she 
, would make him acquainted with the latest 
' news of the smaller world of fashion, and the 
I moment was really one of pleasure to them 
1 both. “They loved each other very well,” ac- 
cording to that expression into which there 
enters no portion of love and only an infinitesi- 
mal portion of friendship. 

I And now Edmee was looking at those doors 
' which once had opened to afford her visions 
i of a life of wedded bliss, through which now 
I came indifference and neglect, through which 
I soon would come old age> solitude and death. 

“Oh, my life! my ruined life!” she suddenly 
i exclaimed, wounded in the tenderest fibers of 
I her being by a weapon whose keen point, pene- 
Itrating stealthily, almost unconsciously to her, 

; I had reached an exposed nerve and wrested 
1 I from her that cry of anguish and distress. 

She recovered herself at once. A woman of 
3r the world does not cry. What would people 
f think of her should they detect her crying? 
i She rang for her maid, dressed for the street, 
if left the house with calm, unhurried steps, and 
h entered the nearest church. It was a mean, 
ir forbidding church, resorted to by the poor. 
A So much the better; she would feel more at 


24 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


ease. Selecting the darkest corner she went) 
down on her knees, and, like a simple v/omanj 
of the people, while the shades of night de-i 
scended, w^ept her fill. 

She had long felt them rising, those hot tears, | 
the overflow of many a repressed sorrow; butj 
had always forced herself to believe there wa^ 
no cause for them. What subject of complaint 
had she? Was not her lot as good as that of, , 
other women whom she knew; nay, was it not 
a hundred-fold better? After some years of an. 
affection at which more experienced person^ 
smile — some with indulgent pity, others wiiti 
mocking sneers — is it not quite the correct 
thing, quite natural, that man and wife should 
become strangers to each other? Provided the 
honor of the name and of the situation is main; 
tained intact by the husband as well as b}^ the 
wife, what can any one ask more? Does it not 
redound to the credit of the husband? Is he not 
in every sense a gentleman? Then why should 
a beautiful woman like Mme. Pontenoy give 
way to tears? 

Still she continued to weep scalding tears, 
even as though she had been a schoolgirl of 
fifteen. She lowered her head and shrank 
within herself, fearing to be seen by the few ; 
women of the people who had come there to ^ 
offer up a prayer. Finally, observing that no L 
one paid attention to her, she plucked up U 
courage and seated herself on the chair that 
was behind her. t L 

t I Ic 

Little by little her tears ceased to flow, and . 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


25 


she subsided into a sort of lethargy. What 
right *had she to say she was unhappy? Her 
husband was good to her — save that he had not 
loved her this long time. But had he ever loved 
her? She shook off the torpor that was stealing 
over her and set to work to evoke her memories 
of the past. No, he had never loved her; it was 
not love that he had felt for her; the sentiment 
that bound them together had in it nothing of 
the ardor and headlong impulses of passion. He 
was young ; she was pretty ; her family had be- 
stowed her on him in marriage; he had wearied 
of her — no one could make her believe that that 
was love. And she — had she loved him? 

In all candor and sincerity, Edmee laid bare 
her conscience and asked herself the question. 
She had believed she loved him : a woman de- 
scends to the level of the most infamous creat- 
ures who, not acting under duress, having un- 
restricted freedom of choice, accepts a man to 
be her husband without loving him. Yes, she 
had believed it to be love. But was it? She 
could not tell. 

She had seen Gilbert draw away from her 
without excessive pain and indignation; trivia^ 
circumstances that wounded her womanly pride, 
trifling quarrels, dismissed with a shrug of the 
shoulders, these were the things that had ac- 
companied and heralded the vanishment of the 
lover in the husband. After that, too proud to 
manifest her displeasure by word or deed, too 
reserved and careful of her wifely dignity to 
make advances to the deserter, she had allowed 


26 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


him to lead the life that pleased him best, with- 
out seeing what the inevitable end must be. 
When, finally, she saw that he would return to 
her no more, it was too late. It made no great 
difference to her on the whole. He continued to 
show her the same consideration and attention 
that he had always done, and her friends ex- 
tolled Fontenoy, the ‘‘pattern husband,” with a 
tinge of envious irony. Was not that enough? 

And now she had revolted, wondering herself 
at her revolt. Why did she suffer to-day from 
that which she had faced so long without winc- 
ing? She could not have told; but she was con- 
scious of a lament that rose constantly to her 
lips and returned with cruel iteration: “J have 
not lived!” 

Not lived! Surrounded by luxury, and with , 
more than her share of beauty and intelligence! ' 
“But look at those women on their knees there I 
beside you,” she said to herself; “it is they r 
who have not lived. As for you, you have had 
everything, everything! and you ^e no better 
than an ungrateful wretch.” 

Vainly she reasoned with herself, her agi- i 
tated feelings would not be appeased. At last . 
a great cry rose within her, which she silenced 
by an effort of her will before it reached her i 
lips, and she sank to her knees again upon the 
prie-Dieu: “My children !” 

Ah, had she but had her children how differ- ’ 
ent would have been her life! Solitude would 
have had no terrors for her then, she would ! 
not have known discouragement! They had 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


27 


died while very young, she had hardly had 
time to know them; and then the rich have 
so little opportunity to exercise the maternal 
instinct ! The little creatures are more the 
property of their nurse than of their mother. 
Why had she not nursed her babies? In the 
case of her first-born it was Gilbert’s wish that 
she should not; but as for the other the respon- 
sibility was hers, in order that one might not be 
more favored than the other; for he would not 
then have opposed her wish. And if she had 
only nursed that one perhaps she might have 
saved him! Ah, to feel those little rosy lips 
drawing vigor and life from one, that was a 
joy she was fated never to know, and the fault 
was her own. 

‘‘My life! my lost, my wasted life! O that 
I were one of those women yonder. In a 
single year of their, wretched existence they 
have more happiness than I shall have known 
in all my life!” 

The bell, tolling six, warned her that it was 
time to go home. How could she present her- 
self before her household in that condition, her 
eyes red and swollen with tears? She lowered 
her veil, that she had raised to wipe her poor 
aching eyes, and with a violent effort rose to 
her feet, stiff and sore after retaining so long 
an unaccustomed posture. 

“I won’t cry any more,” she said to herself. 
“It’s foolish, and besides it does no good.” 

When she reached the porch the cold wind 
blowing on her face revived her. With the 


28 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


calm, unruffled bearing of a woman of society 
she descended the low flight of stone steps and 
bent her way toward home. 

During those two hours of weeping and bitter 
introspection it had never once occurred to Mme. 
Fontenoy that many women, when deserted by 
their husband, console themselves with the love 
of another man, and that there was nothing to 
prevent her from doing the same. 


III. 

Mme. Fontenoy was doing the honors of the 
unostentatious dinner tendered to Comte Forest. 
The comte, Fabien, Juliette, the Verseleys, an- 
other married couple, a bachelor and two pretty | 
but penniless sisters — invited for their proficiency j 
in music — composed a tranquil and agreeable 
assemblage — one of those gatherings v/here one 
always finds some one with whom to have a 
little pleasant converse, and which one leaves 
without overwhelming regret. 

The dinner itself was irreproachable — only one 
dish with truffles; the remainder extremely sim- 
ple. and unpretentious, but exquisitely cooked 
and served. The service was noiseless, swift 
and vigilant. To give such a banquet one must 
have been for long years ruler of a house and ' 
have the co-operation of a corps of well-trained ; 
servants. Comte Forest was fit to give an 
opinion on such matters, and under cover of 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


29 


the conversation availed himself of an oppor- 
tunity to compliment his hostess. 

‘‘You have progressed in the way of wisdom,” 
he said to her, “since the day when I had the 
honor of assisting at your wedding.” 

“We won’t speak of that, if you please,” she 
replied, with a pleasant smile and something 
like a flash in her fine eyes, which were neither 
brown nor gray, but of the color of Spanish 
topaz — a deep golden brown. 

“Why not?” 

“Because it would be reminding you of your 
age to no purpose. You look every bit as young 
to-day as you did then, dear Comte, and yet 
twenty years have passed over our heads.” 

Forest gave a moment’s appreciative atten- 
tion to the petits pois a la creme that solicited 
his fork, then cast a sweeping glance upon 
the company. 

“A very fine-looking man your husband is, 
my dear child — a very fine-looking man, indeed,. 
I assure you,” said he, in a tone of conviction. 

The smile faded slowly from Mme. Fonte- 
noy’s lips. A certain lassitude was all that 
remained of her recent shock, a dread of any- 
thing that might tend to revive her ancient sor- 
row and an anxious desire to avoid it. The 
thought of her husband seemed to her danger- 
ous. When she saw him she forbade her 
thoughts to dwell on him. It was remem- 
brance of the past that frightened and alarmed 
her. 

Lending an unlistening ear to the observa- 


30 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


tions of her other neighbor, Edmee gave a 
swift glance around the table to see that all 
was as it should be, and suddenly started as 
if her gaze had lighted on a basilisk. How 
could she have failed to detect the meaning of 
the comedy — or was it a drama? — that was 
being carried on by Fontenoy and Mme. Verse- 
ley? And why did she see it to-day with a 
distinctness that left no room for doubt? ^ 

Attired in a gown of sea-green silk so fash- 
ioned by the milliner’s art as to display the 
sinuous graces of her lithe and supple form, 
and which shot back the light in broken, shim- 
mering rays like the pale reflections from the 
caverns of some gigantic ocean billow. The 
young woman was not unlike one of those 
fabled beings that haunt the translucent sub- 
marine wastes and lure men totheir ruin, the 
face was striking rather than beautiful, and 
the black hair, arranged in smooth bandeaux 
.over a narrow forehead, gave her something 
the appearance of a serpent. ‘‘A viper’s head,” 
her enemies called it; but at all events it was 
the head of a very charming viper. 

This strange woman — whose gown, scarcely 
open at the neck, gave one the impression that 
she was shamelessly decolletee — ^was seated at 
Fontenoy’s side, and yet seemed parted from 
him by a space of a hundred leagues. She paid 
him no attention, listening with apparent in- 
terest to Fabien’s utterances, who, very wide 
awake and capable of appreciating his fair 
neighbor’s charm, had launched out into a 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


31 


brilliant conversation, one of those semi- 
monologues in which men of the world excel, 
which have no significance except for one pair 
of ears, and in which one can say quantities of 
things that the uninitiated would suppose to be 
utterly void of meaning. Fontenoy, who, at 
the utmost, received only a portion of the 
overflow of this torrent of eloquence, confined 
his conversation almost exclusively to his neigh- 
bor on the other side, and yet his wife, by a 
sudden and certain intuition, saw that he was 
jealous, that Mme. Verseley alone occupied his 
thoughts, and that he certainly had had claims 
on her which he possessed no longer. 

A glance at the masculine Verseley was the 
necessary complement of this discovery. Ed- 
mee’s rapid look showed him to be a nullity, 
a pretentious idiot enchanted with himself and 
his own folly. The indignation that the good 
woman had ready to bestow on him was sud- 
denly transmuted into scornful pity. But the 
other, Fontenoy, why had he that cold and 
sarcastic smile -when he spoke to Mme. Ver- 
seley? Why had he insisted on having her to 
dinner if they had quarreled? For it was he— 

“And to think,” reflected Edmee, “that for 
the last two years my door has been open to that 
woman-serpent! She is horrid in her snake- 
skin ! She has no right to appear in my draw- 
ing-room undressed like that!” 

Her scorn was legible in the flexible corners 
of her mouth. Forest was watching her fur- 
tively ; he wished to ascertain if she knew. 


32 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


^‘That young lady, next your husband; she 
is a remarkable looking person; has a style of 
beauty of her own. Friend of yours?” 

“No; she is a friend of my husband,” Mine. 
Fontenoy shortly rejoined. 

Forest was satisfied. 

“Is that your niece, that pretty girl over 
there?” he asked, directing his monocle over 
Juliette’s way. “She is charming! The rose 
itself is not fresher or sweeter. She is Mme. 
Chassagny’s daughter, isn’t she?” 

“Yes; since my brother-in-law’s death my 
sister’s health has been feeble. She does not 
go out at all now, and as I am very fond of Juli- 
ette I serve as her chaperon. It is nice to have 
a young girl in the house.” 

“Yes, especially when you can secure one who 
has already been broken to harness,” Forest 
added. “I often wonder at the courage mothers 
display in bringing up their daughters, in view 
of the little pleasure and profit they derive from 
them. They are allowed to keep their nestlings 
so long as they are not full-fledg'ed, and to have 
all the worry and trouble that they necessarily 
impose; but the moment that the process of 
education is completed and the young bird’s 
fine feathers are fully grown, along comes a 
husband and carries her off to another cage.” 

“We should not call it a cage, should we?” 
said Edmee, with a laugh. 

“You think not?” 

Forest’s searching look read Mme. Fontenoy ’s 
inmost soul. So she had not found the estate 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


33 


of matrimony to be a prison? Probably the 
reason was that she had never attempted to 
try her wings. He felt a profound sentiment 
of respect for the upright woman whom he had 
known from childhood ; and, by an easily ex- 
plicable impulse, his eyes reverted to Mme. 
Verseley. There was another woman who did 
not chafe under the matrimonial bond — but for 
quite a different reason. 

The dinner disposed of, the company passed 
to the drawing-room. Suddenly Pabien per- 
ceived that Fontenoy was looking at him with 
displeasure. He was sufficiently versed in the 
ways of the world to comprehend that his as- 
siduities toward his captivating neighbor were 
not regarded favorably by his relative; whereon 
he proceeded to give her the cold shoulder with 
surprising celerity. 

‘‘My cousin should put up a sign,” he inen- 
tally observed: “ ‘ No poaching on these prem- 
ises,'^ But that doesn’t absolve me. I was a 
donkey not to ascertain whether or no the shoot- 
ing was preserved. Let’s try and see if we can 
mend matters.” 

Mending matters consisted in making himself 
agreeable to Mme. Fontenoy. The young man 
applied himself to the undertaking, and was 
favored with a moderate measure of success. 
Edmee was naturally of a kindly disposition, 
and disposed to look on the bright side of 
things. She recognized Fabien’s manifest de- 
sire to please, and met his efforts half-way. 

When the guests had all left, Juliette, wrapped 


34 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


in her cloak, and wearing on her head a be- 
witching little fur toque, came up to kiss her 
aunt good-night. 

“Your party was a very agreeable one,” said 
she, “but there was nothing there for me.” 

“ How, nothing for you ? Wasn’t Comte 
Forest there?” 

And the two women laughed merrily. 

“He is perfectly delightful; and really, quite 
a young man.” 

“I know what you are going to say, auntie: 
younger than most of our young men of the 
present day. It is what every one always says. 
But that brand-new gentleman you had — M. 
Malvois I believe his name is — who’s he?” 

“A distant cousin of your uncle’s. What do 
you think of him?” 

“Oh, my dear aunt! what a question! ” Juli- 
ette replied, with an air of offended delicacy. 
“Do we girls ever permit ourselves to say what 
we think of a young man, and of a young man, 
too, who — Well, never mind; if I should tell 
you what I think of him you would give me a 
piece of your mind.” 

“Go on and tell it all the same,” urged Mme. 
Fontenoy, highly amused. 

“Well, I think that if he expects to marry 
into our set it will be as well for him to be less 
attentive to other folks’ wives. When one is 
married she knows what she has got to look 
forward to — ” 

“Juliette!” 

“Why, auntie, we know that our husbands 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


85 


will pay attenticn to other women. Isn’t it 
always so? There now! You see that I know 
what I’m talking about ! But that’s no reason 
why a man should commence his practices be- 
fore he is married; it really is not encouraging. 
Besides, do you yourself like that Verseley wo- 
man?” 

“Juliette, you are not nice.” 

“Ifeither is she; the more shame to her! A 
decent woman doesn’t go dressed as she does! 
And with* such airs of modesty! And a dress 
cut high-necked, almost! It’s scandalous, you 
know. If I were you I wouldn’t let her darken 
my doors. Who introduces those people to 
you?” 

“Your uncle.” 

“I am surprised. One would suppose he 
couldn’t endure her. I observed him when 
he W’as talking to her; he made a face as if he 
were eating overhigh game. Good-night, my 
adored aunt, I am going now. I know it would 
require until to-morrow to express all you feel 
on the subject of my naughtiness, and I love 
you too much too cause you a sleepless night — 
unless when I am dancing.” 

She was tripping lightly away when in the 
doorway she encountered Fontenoy. 

“Good-night, my beloved uncle. The next 
time you present an aspirant for my hand, 
please tell him that I am the one he must 
make love to.” 

And she vanished. 

“What does she mean by that?” asked Fon- 


36 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


tenoy, coming and seating himself beside his 
wife. 

“I can’t say. I presume she thought your 
young cousin was not as attentive as he might 
have been,” Edmee replied. 

“Indeed,” her husband gravely remarked. 
The look of disgust which had elicited such 
a comical simile from Juliette appeared again 
upon his face while he was thinking of Mine. 
Verseley, which brought a smile to his wife’s 
lips. “Fabien is rich,” he went oh. “He is 
a very desirable match. Juliette will hardly 
do better. I hope no one will try to prejudice 
her against him.” 

‘‘My friend, if my advice is asked, I say: 
‘Let her choose for herself,’ ” Edmee replied. 

“You never said anything to lead me to be- 
lieve that you entertained such opinions,” said 
he, looking at her with surprise. “I thought, 
on the contrary, that you were not favorable to 
youthful attachments.” 

“Yes,” she hesitatingly rejoined, “that is 
true — I did think so once — but now I am not 
so certain — ” 

“Indeed! — since when?” 

She raised her candid eyes to her husband’s 
face. “ Since this evening, I believe. But 
really I cannot say for certain; it is an idea 
that came to me just now. Let us not hurry 
matters, my friend; there is plenty of time,” 

“As you please, my dear. Good- night.” 

He kissed her hand. She looked at the clock; 
the hand was at eleven. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


37 


“Are you going to your room?” she asked. 
“No, I shall go to the club for a while. Good- 
night.” And he left her. 


IV. 

Edmee retired to her chamber and presently 
dismissed her maid. She loved that calm and 
silent hour which precedes slumber, when all 
the household is asleep, or ought to be. In its 
tranquil repose she had often contemplated her 
existence, with a sensation of pleased delight, 
with the satisfaction of being rich, surrounded 
by pretty and attractive things, by agreeable 
friends and pleasant acquaintances. That in 
“which her life was deficient had not been an 
afiliction to her in those days; rather was she 
tempted to rejoice in her unrestricted liberty, 
unfettered by any troublesome tie of love or 
motherhood. Since her day of weeping, these 
egotistic sensations had abandoned her; it no 
longer afforded her pleasure to think of those 
things which once had seemed so restful. Most 
of her thoughts of this description, after having 
flattered round her for a while, like night-moths 
awakened by an approaching candle, had fallen 
and perished .by the wayside. The memory 
of Juliette projected itself athwart this gray 
waste like a ray of sunshine struggling through 
an April shower. She was so fresh, so full of 
life, so original in her expressions, and withal. 


38 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


viewing life and its affairs in such a practical 
light. Would the promise of her bright youth 
be succeeded by the achievement of a glorious 
maturity? That was a question that as yet 
Mme. Fontenoy had never asked herself. To 
establish her in life with a husband, rich, 
young, well-born and well-bred, was not that 
the utmost that could be done for her? And 
now, behold, this future had ceased to appear 
the only possible, the only desirable one. 
Whether or not there might be another and 
a better, Edmee could not say; but the one 
thing she felt certain of was that a young girl’s 
happiness is not to be assured by this general 
programme, as if it were the fashion of a hat 
or of a gown. 

That was doubtless the way in which Mme. 
Verseley had married — merely for the sake of 
marriage, without giving attention to the hus- 
band; for he could not have left her long in 
doubt as to his charms of mind and person; but 
likely enough, also, she had looked to him for 
nothing of that nature, wealth and social posi- 
tion sudicing amply for all her needs. 

Mme. Fontenoy could not help feeling an- . 
noyed and disgusted at the .thought of the 
sinuous undine in her shimmering sea-green 
gown. Juliette \vas right. Why did she re- 
ceive such people? But having received them 
once she could not, in common decency, close 
her door against them. The best she could do 
was to see as little of them as possible. Without 
asking herself why, she felt it was not probable 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


39 


that her husband would ask her to invite them 
again. But why had they been bidden to the 
feast of to-day? To celebrate a rupture? Strange 
that a wife’s intervention should be sought in 
such a case! Truly queer things are done some- 
times under cloak of the proprieties! 

Mine. Fontenoy, although not exactly an opti- 
mist, was not addicted to stirring up the mud 
and slime that underlies the placid surface of 
society. Entertaining a preference for that 
which is clean and of good repute, she^ averted 
her eyes that they might be spared the sight of 
such disagreeable things as she met with in her 
daily walks. This was the course that she 
adopted now as regarded Mme. Verseley. To 
be quite logical, she should at the same time 
have dismissed Gilbert’s image — but she did 
not do it. 

Was he really afflicted by the neglect, or, to 
speak more plainly, by the desertion of that 
strange woman? Or was it merely an impulse 
of masculine pique? Mme. Fontenoy was well 
aware that her husband’s conjugal obligations 
sat lightly on him; but being neither a prude 
nor a fool, she declined to consider a condition 
of affairs which it was best she should feign 
ignorance of, and which — thanks to her p9.tience 
and indifference — she had really succeeded in 
ignoring; and this had proved of great advan- 
tage to her. Up to the present time the thought 
of her husband’s flirtations had inspired in her 
a sentiment of contemptuous pity; and all at 
once, actuated by a new-born feeling of compas- 


40 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


sioa, she detected herself askiag if he had not 
suffered. At the same time she was conscious 
of a sentiment of true and tender friendship — 
much deeper than ever she had imagined — for 
this volatile husband. 

It was difficult to reconcile the idea of suffer- 
ing with handsome Gilbert’s external appear- 
ance — which was attractive still, though scarcely 
as trim and graceful as it once had been — or 
with his self-reliant air and his unalterable good 
humor. Mme. Fontenoy assured herself that it 
was really very kind of her to trouble her head 
about the matter and turned her thoughts else- 
where. 

Fabien Malvois was a very good-looking 
young man, and appeared to be a good fel- 
low, so far as that qualification was not in- 
consistent with the rigid impassibility de- 
manded by the fashion of the time. Was he, 
too, about to succumb to Madame Verseley’s 
wdles? Really, it would be too — Edmee 
pulled herself up short. Too what? What 
was it to her if that coquette saw fit to sub- 
stitute Fabien for Gilbert? It seems that there 
are a great many subjects of refiection in this 
world that an honest woman must put aside if 
she wishes to retain her peace of mind and not 
offend her moral nicety! Edmee said to her- 
self that the hour was late and she would do 
best to go to bed. She opened the door and 
listened. There was no sound to announce 
that her husband had returned. Besides, he 
almost always came in late and she scarcely 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


41 


ever heard him. So she sought her couch 
and soon was sleeping soundly. 

Fontenoy had not been near his club. He 
had intended to go there, but on finding him- 
self in the street had suddenly experienced that 
imperative need of exercise that is familiar to 
those who are laboring under the stress of men- 
tal or physical suffering. A good long walk 
at a brisk pace, it is said, will cure a raging 
toothache; then why not an ache of the heart 
or of wounded vanity? And handsome Gil- 
bert had an ache, he could not say just 
where. 

Mme. Verseley had received him very well in 
the beginning, and for two or three months he 
had got on swimmingly. The entire comedy of 
flirtation had been enacted between them. The 
finished coquette had brought all her artifices 
into action, alternately attracting and repelling 
him — -raising him to the seventh heaven of hope 
to-day only to cast him down into the black 
gulf of despair to-morrow — until at last, when 
that which was mere caprice had become real 
passion with him, the pretty viper had politely 
shown him the door, and told him that hence- 
forth it would be closed against him. Then he 
had presented himself on her reception day, thus 
compelling her to receive him in presence of 
witnesses ; and to show that he was master, had 
prevailed on Edmee to extend an invitation to 
the fair, certain that the woman would accept if 
for no other reason than not to displease her 
husband, who prided himself on having such 


42 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


fine acquaintances, and would not have known 
what to make of a refusal. 

It was with a sensation of malignant and ill- 
conditioned pleasure that she penned her note of 
acceptance ; for she reflected that it would be a 
pleasure — and of the most exquisite — to sit down 
at table with her discarded admirer and give 
him to understand that he had ceased to please, 
while he was powerless to display his rage and 
jealousy. Not that Mme. Verseley was alto- 
gether bad at heart; but she had a weakness 
for the sensational and for those life dramas in 
which her part was attended with no danger. An 
ardent pursuer of emotions, this was one that she 
looked forward to with pleasurable anticipations. 

Gilbert had suffered that evening more than 
he would have cared to tell, more than he knew 
himself. There was a terrible conflict of 
wounded vanity and disappointed passion rag- 
ing in his being. The sentiment that he had 
experienced for the woman was not very pro- 
found, neither was it very elevated, but still he 
had loved her after a fashion, and feeling that 
he had done nothing to merit the treatment she 
accorded him, he was naturally indignant. 
Fontenoy was certainly not a fool, but when 
love takes possession of us it would seem that 
a certain modicum of folly enters by the same 
door — and generally departs at the same time. 
For the moment he was as impatient as a young 
man prosecuting his first adventure. A night’s 
rest would doubtless cause him to view matters 
in a different light. He saw where the truth 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


43 


lay, and lectured himself, reasoned with him- 
self, but to no purpose; the intolerable ache 
persisted in returning. 

With head down and hands thrust deep into 
the pockets of his overcoat, he strode onward 
through the storm of mingled snow and rain 
that lashed his face, heedless alike of the in- 
clemency of the weather and the lateness of the 
hour. Suddenly he became conscious of a ter- 
rible sensation of heat and constriction clutch- 
ing at his throat. He looked around him for a 
vehicle of some sort to take him home. He saw 
that he was on the Place Pereire, where the gas- 
lights were shining brightly on the deserted 
sidewalks, only a few steps from his house. 
For hours, unconsciously to himself, he had 
been walking in a narrow circle whose center 
was his own dwelling. An icy chill shook his 
body, while the fierce heat in his head was that 
of a confiagration. He endeavored to hasten 
his steps, but it seemed as if his nerveless legs 
would give way beneath his weight. When at 
last he had reached his house and after laborious 
effort climbed the steps, he hunted a long time 
for his key, opened the door and entered. The 
staircase appeared to him to have no end. At 
top, in the hot, intolerably close atmosphere, he 
found his valet — who should have been watch- 
ing— sound asleep. The light of the gas hurt 
his eyes and caused him a strange sensation of 
nausea. He submitted to be undressed and dis- 
missed the domestic, acting on an impulse simi- 
lar to that of the wounded animal, which seeks 


44 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


a refuge where it can suffer in secret, uuseeu of 
its kind. Scarcely had he touched the bed when 
he sank into a sort of lethargy. 

Mme. Fontenoy was a light sleeper. Some 
time after she had retired, she was awakened 
abruptly by distant sounds that frightened her. 
What were they? Shouts, cries, groans? She 
could not distinguish clearly. The noise ap- 
peared to reach her through the little draw- 
ing-room. Edmee was no coward. Had there 
been any one by to see the idea that a crime was 
being committed within a few steps of her 
would have scared her out of her senses, that 
being the effect that is expected from every 
well-bred woman. At that hour, and in the 
silence and solitude of the night, she did not 
hesitate a moment. By the dim light of the 
night-lamp she hastily slipped on a peignoir 
and made for the door. 

The only light in the empty drawing-room 
was that which straggled faintly through the 
blinds from the gas-lamps which flared and 
flickered in the gusts that swept the street. 
The sounds proceeded from Fontenoy’s bed- 
room. At the threshold she stopped for a 
moment hesitating. For many years she had 
not passed that door except to give the room 
the vigilant attention of the housewife. Even 
should Gilbert be in real peril, would not her 
entrance be regarded as an intrusion? A sound 
as of some one choking dispelled her uncertainty. 
Her husband was there — was suffering. She 
entered. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


45 


A candle was burning on the table. Its dim 
light enabled Mme. Fontenoy to discern the con- 
gested condition of her husband’s face. His 
breathing was momently becoming more ster- 
torous and labored. With rare presence of 
mind for a woman unversed in the practical 
details of life she threw the window wide open, 
then rang for the valet de chambre and dis- 
patched him for a doctor. 

When one knows nothing, can do nothing, 
and is brought face to face with an emergency 
when life and death hang in the balance, and 
a second’s delay may prove fatal, the minutes 
are long and full of anguish. The servant had 
employed the usual methods to revive his mas- 
ter, placing wet towels on his head, rubbing his 
temples with eau de Cologne; then, finding that 
his efforts met with no success, had prudently 
retired to avoid being summoned as a witness 
in case Fontenoy should die. The window had 
remained open. Feeling herself chilled, Edmee 
rose and closed it, then returned and resumed 
her seat beside the bed where her husband lay 
panting, his labored respiration resounding 
through the apartment with the measured 
cadence of a blacksmith’s bellows. 

Was he going to lie there and die, and was 
there no help for it? Of what avail was all 
their wealth then? So long as he had not had 
need of anything, his lot had seemed as enviable 
as that of the most fortunate. How he was no 
better off than the poorest laborer, than the 
homeless vagrant who throws himself down in 


46 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


the gutter to die. Nay, the vagrant had the 
advantage, for a policeman would probably 
come along and pick him up. 

The noise of doors opened and closed resounded 
through the silent house. Edrnee raised her 
head. It was the servant returning with a 
physician; not Fontenoy’s family doctor, who 
lived at too great a distance, but a district 
physician whose name was kept with others 
on a slate at the police station. The rich man, 
Fontenoy, was to receive the same assistance as 
any poor needy devil ; but it mattered little, so 
long as the assistance was there. 

The valet de chambre had come back now that 
there was some one to share his responsibility 
with him. 

“Let me have two claret glasses and some 
cotton ravelings, and be quick about it,” said 
the doctor, who was young and quick of speech 
and movement. 

The required articles were long in making 
their appearance. We have all had experience 
how things hide away and will not be found 
W’hen needed in a big house where there is a 
crowd of servants. The keys of the office could 
not be had until some functionary was awak- 
ened. At last the glasses came. Assisted by 
Edmee, for the domestics were utterly incapable 
of rendering any help, the doctor cupped Fon- 
tenoy on the chest. 

The wife had never witnessed an operation of 
that nature. It seemed to her cruel. When 
she saw the skin rise in a great blister and 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


47 


partly fill the glass she could hardly refraiu 
from uttering a cry of horror. 

‘‘Let’s have no hysterics, if you please, ma- 
dame,” the physician curtly said; “or if you 
are going to give way to them, leave the room. 
This man will assist me.” 

“No, I will assist, monsieur,” she replied, re- 
covering her self-control by a violent effort and 
without feeling offended by the stranger’s un- 
ceremonious manner of addressing her. 

Other cuppings followed; Fontenoy’s breath- 
ing became less labored; at last he opened his 
eyes, but closed them again immediately. A 
moment later he inhaled a deep breath and his 
eyelids rose very slowly, as if he were taking 
his first look at the world of the living. 

“That is well,” said the doctor. “Don’t 
speak, don’t move; keep perfectly still.” 

He changed the position of his patient, rais- 
ing him so that he might breathe more easily. 

“Get more pillows,” he said to Edmee. “His 
head must be kept higher than it is.” 

Mine. Fontenoy obediently went and took the 
pillows from her bed and helped to place them 
under the others. Then she waited to see what 
would happen. The clock struck five. 

“You will have to sit by him for the rest of 
the night, madam,” the doctor calmly said. 
“It won’t be long, though, for it is nearly 
daylight now. You will see that he has the 
draught which I will send. I will stop and 
arouse the druggist on my way home. You 
would receive it too late if you should wait 


48 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


and send one of your servants. I shall return 
at nine o’clock. Let there be no noise, nothing 
to excite the patient — perfect silence. You un- 
derstand, madame! I have the honor to bid you 
good-morning.” 

He left the room, his shoulders some^yhat 
bowed, like a man accustomed to sustain the 
burdens of life. He appeared to be nowise 
astonished by the magnificence of the suite 
through which he passed. According to his 
way of looking at things, in the condition he 
had found Fontenoy in, one man is not so 
very different from another, and the effect 
produced by the capping on the rich man’s 
skin was exactly the same as if the treatment 
had been employed on a pauper. 

Mme. Fontenoy remained seated beside her 
husband, utterly at sea and unable to arrange 
her thoughts. She could hardly bring herself 
to believe that it was he, lying there on that 
bed, with that swollen, distorted face, whose 
eyes no longer had the expression that she had 
always known there. Still less could she be- 
lieve that it was she in that room, where, for 
seventeen years, she had never once sat down 
— she, acting as her husband’s nurse. It all 
seemed to her like a horrid nightmare. The 
house was again wrapped in silence: the valet de 
chambre had taken himself off to bed, the other 
servants were not risen yet, not a sound was 
to be heard in the tranquil street. The ticking 
of the clock marked the flight of time in imperi- 
ous, jerky accents. Edmee’s mind was strangely 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


49 


lucid. She was conscious of no fatigue result- 
ing from the occurrences of the night; but 
rather a sort of tranquil superexcitation, if the 
two words may be thus conjoined — a state of 
mind and body that resembled a permanent ac- 
tion, and which she would gladly have pro- 
longed, for it was not without its charm. 

For a moment she had feared that she was 
never to see the light of her husband’s eyes 
again. With the rapidity of insight that 
characterizes those moments of storm and 
darkness, she had asked herself what her feel- 
ings would be should she suddenly find herself 
left a widow; and the answer had been that her 
grief would be deep and sincere. 

While deftly passing the small bits of lighted 
paper to the doctor she had been reflecting on the 
important place in her social, and even in her 
material life, which was ^occupied by that hus- 
band, who, she had believed, was nothing more 
than a polite and well-bred table-companion. 
She felt that even under those circumstances he 
had been a protector and companion to her. She 
had a vivid glimpse of what existence would be 
when she should no longer have his company, 
either at table or in the world, when the duty of 
correcting and, at need, discharging the serv- 
ants would devolve on her; when she — an indo- 
lent and helpless woman — should be burdened 
with the ordering of a luxurious and expensive 
household ; and she had recoiled from the pros- 
pect, exclaiming: “Oh, no! not that — not that!” 

It seemed probable now that Fontenoy would 


50 


AN OLD FOLKS' WOOING. 


live. She tried to assure herself he would. She 
made a more thorough exploration of the re- 
cesses of her mind, and was surprised by what 
she found there. She discovered that she really 
loved him, this tried and trusty friend, her 
companion of twenty years. Who could have 
believed that circumstances in themselves so 
unimportant as bearing the same name, in- 
habiting the same house, sitting at the same 
table either as hosts or guests, could introduce 
so much real warmth of feeling into relations 
apparently so strained? 

Then the thought of her ruined life came 
back to her again. Did he care for her at all? 
Was he capable of reciprocating her cordial 
feeling, of participating in the generous im- 
pulse of her affection? She raised her eyes 
and gave him a sorrowful look, as if asking 
him the question, and blushed like one detected 
in wrong-doing. He had opened his eyes, and 
they were bent on her with a singular expres- 
sion, almost of fear. 

“ ’Sh!” said she, raising her hand in warn- 
ing. “You are doing very well, my friend; 
don’t stir!” 

The expression of Fontenoy’s face showed 
that he was in pain. He motioned feebly 
toward his chest. 

“It is to make you well, my friend. You 
must suffer and have patience, my poor Gil- 
bert. But don’t alarm yourself; it is nothing — 
nothing at all!” 

She spoke such words as came to her to cheer 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


51 


and comfort him, as she would have spoken to 
a sick child. He understood the expression of 
her voice and smile, closed his eyes again and 
lay without motion, resignedly enduring the 
salutary pain that told of returning life. 

When the doctor returned at the appointed 
hour, he found M. and Mme. Fontenoy as he 
had left them. Without calling for the assist- 
ance of a servant he parted the curtains and 
threw back the shutters. The room was imme- 
diately inundated with the clear morning light. 
Without, the sun was shining brightly from a 
cloudless sky upon the coating of snow that had 
fallen during the night and covered streets and 
housetops. He examined his patient and de- 
clared himself satisfied with his condition. 

“What doctor does your husband generally 
employ?” he asked Edmee. 

She mentioned an illustrious name. He 
puckered his lips in a grimace of admiration 
to indicate that he knew the cost of such 
attendance. 

“Well, you had better send for him now. 
Tell hiToo it is the district physician who is re- 
sponsible for the treatment so far. Here is my 
card in case there should be any question.” 

Edmee rose with a start. It was to that 
stranger that she was indebted for her hus- 
band’s life. She tried to tell him so ; he stopped 
her. 

“It is what we are paid for, madame. It is for 
cases like this that our names are kept for ref- 
erence at the stations. Your fine gentlemen of 


52 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


the Institute won’t respond to night calls. They 
show themselves when we have brought their 
patients back to life. They are right enough, 
though. I would do as they do if I were rich.” 

He bowed and was walking away. Edmee 
followed him into the drawing-room. 

“Have you any children, sir?” she asked. 

“Three,” he gruffly answered. 

“You are fortunate,” she gently said; “they 
are what gives one courage to labor — and the 
desire to live.” 

He looked at her in surprise, but not knowing 
what reply to make, bowed again and left the 
house. 

The medical celebrity who was intrusted with 
the charge of Fontenoy’s health came in to look 
at him in the course of the day, and as he was 
not only a great doctor, but also a very decent 
man, he gave the sanction of his approval to 
the treatment of his obscurer colleague. With 
surprise not unmingled with some respect, he 
learned that Edmee had spent her night iu 
watching at her husband’s bedside, and in a few 
sincere words applauded her devotion. As Fon- 
tenoy could not be left alone, and the valet had 
given abundant proof of his inefflciency, it was 
determined that a trained nurse should be called 
in for the night. 

Edmee sent immediately to all those places 
where there was a likelihood of finding what 
she needed, but it so chanced that Paris was 
at that time being ravaged by an epidemic 
of infiuenza. Nowhere could be found man or 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


53 


woman capable of assuming the responsibility. 
Trained nurses and Sisters of Charity alike, all 
were at their patients’ bedsides and could not 
leave them. 

“Truly,” Edmee reflected, “money can do 
very little! It would have been powerless to 
keep my husband from dying last night had 
fate so willed, and now our entire fortune will 
not relieve me from the task of watching again 
to-night, exactly as if I were the wife of a com- 
mon laborer. Well, I don’t know that I am so 
very sorry, after all! When he gets well, if he 
remembers it, he will have a kindlier feeling for 
me, and if — if he should die, I shall be glad to 
think I did it!” 

Notwithstanding her new-born contempt for 
money, Mme. Fontenoy remembered that those 
who are not so well supplied with the commodity 
are generally not averse to receiving it. She 
put a flve hundred franc note in an envelope 
and sent it round to the station-house for the 
district physician. She would gladly have 
made the sum twice as great, but dared not for 
fear lest she might offend him by a generosity 
too closely resembling charity. Her heart lay 
lightly in her bosom, and she would have been 
pleased that others should share her joy. 


54 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


V. 

Fontenoy was picking up rapidly and mak- 
ing decided progress toward recovery. After 
two long weary days, and two more nights, dur- 
ing which his wife, not venturing in her inex- 
perience of the sick-chamber to give way to her 
desire for slumber, had taken her rest in cat-naps, 
he was slowly returning to the land of the liv- 
ing. He took a little nourishment, was con- 
scious of his condition, complaining in particu- 
lar of severe pains in his back, and began to 
have some remembrance of what had happened. 
He was not allowed to see any one as yet, al- 
though the door- bell was constantly resounding 
with the ring of those who called to inquire and 
leave their cards. 

One evening toward nine o’clock Gilbert, his 
eyes wide open, was staring about him as if 
trying to memorize the contents of the room. 
Edmee had gone down to dinner and, busied 
with the innumerable details of her household, 
which she had neglected during the past few 
days, had not yet returned. Fontenoy’s gaze 
rested on his secretary — a magnificent specimen 
of old buhl standing between two windows — 
with an intensity that seemed as if it would 
pierce its sides. Several times he was on the 
point of speaking to his valet, who was moving 
noiselessly about the apartment arranging things 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


66 


in readiness for the night, but each time he re- 
L^ained. At last he came to a decision and 
curtly asked: 

‘‘My keys?” 

The servant gave a start of surprise at the 
sound of his voice, but answered almost imme- 
diately: “Monsieur’s keys are on the bureau, 
where monsieur left them.” 

“Bring them here.” 

The servant obeyed. Fontenoy’s fingers 
closed over the little bunch and he shut his 
eyes. A moment later Edmee entered the 
room. She asked a question or two of the 
valet in a low voice and then came forward 
to her husband, a bright smile of encourage- 
ment on her lips. The saying has been re- 
peated until it is threadbare: “Every woman is 
at heart a mother. ” It is quite certain that at 
that moment Edmee considered her husband 
in the light of a trust confided to her care by 
Providence with the sole intent that she should 
watch over him and nurse him back to health. 

I The servant silently retired, and she went and 
i seated herself on the edge of her reclining chair, 

! near the lamp, where her book was awaiting 
|! her with a bit of red ribbon between the leaves 
I to mark her place. A moment later she heard 
I herself called, 
i “Edmee!” said Eontenoy. 

It was the first time since his accident that he 
I had spoken without being addressed. She rose 
j at once and went over to him. Her noble, erect 
1 form seemed to glide over the carpet rather than 


o6 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


walk, with a motion of perfect grace and maj- 
esty. 

“Edmee,” said he, “will you do me a favor?” 

He spoke quite distinctly, although his enun- 
ciation was somewhat thick, and the light of 
intelligence shone in his eyes. His wife’s heart 
was glad within her to see him, as it were, thus 
risen from the dead. 

“Name it and it shall be done,” she joyously 
replied . 

He handed her the bunch of keys, from among 
which his trembling fingers had vainly tried to 
extricate that of the secretary. He pointed it 
out to her. 

“A drawer,” he explained. 

She was already standing by the desk. 

“Which one?” 

“The third one to the — ” 

He tried to remember the word “left.” Not 
succeeding, he raised that hand. She under- 
stood. She opened the secretary and pulled out 
the drawer. 

“Here!” said Fontenoy. 

Forthwith she brought it over to the bed. 
He nodded his head in approval of each of her 
movements. 

The drawer contained a number of small pack- 
ages of letters, all carefully tied together with 
ribbons of different colors — letters from women, 
evidently. Why do men, even the least roman- 
tic of them, persist in keeping those things? 
Edmee thought it a very inane proceeding. 
Who knows? Perhaps her own letters, the 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


57 


few she had ever written him during the in- 
frequent occasions of her absence from him for 
a little while, were there among the resto He 
gave her an entreating look. 

“Dear Edmee, please — into the fire, all of 
them!” 

She was thrilled through all her being by an 
impulse made up of mingled pride and anger. 
He must entertain a very good opinion of her, 
then, thus to place in her hands, the hands of 
his lawful wife, that which represented the 
honor, or the semblance of honor, of his loves 
of bygone days? Or did he esteem his wife 
so lightly that he judged her incapable of 
guessing at the truth? She looked him in 
the face, trying to decide which was the 
correct hypothesis; and, meantime, her fingers 
were tightly clinched over the sides of the 
frail receptacle that contained so much history 
of the past and so much tribulation for the 
future, if she so willed it. He read in her 
eyes what was passing in her mind; not the 
whole, perhaps, but enough to move him 
deeply. But he knew her well, that loyal and 
upright wife of his, better than he had sup- 
posed, infinitely better than she had any sus- 
picion of. He knew that she was not an 
angel, endowed with supernatural gifts, but 
simply an honest mortal, incapable of com- 
mitting a mean action. 

“Please, into the fire with them!” he said, in 
the faint, almost unaccented voice with which 
his illness had left him. 


58 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


She walked slowly over to the fireplace, [and 
there, with a finely dramatic gesture, such a 
one as the priestesses of old might have em= 
ployed, emptied the drawer upon the flames, 
not even touching the contents with her hand, 

‘‘I wonder if Mme, Verseley’s letters are 
there?” she asked herself, as the little perfumed 
packages went tumbling down among the ashes 
of which they would soon be part. “She is not 
the kind of woman to write letters!” she imme- 
diately replied. 

She placed the empty drawer upon the mantle- 
piece, took up the tongs, and presently a bright 
blaze flamed up, illuminating her face and send- 
ing its dancing lights over to the bed where 
Gilbert lay propped up on his pillows, his eyes 
fixed intently on the conflagration. Edmee 
stirred the glowing mass until there was not 
a scrap of white paper left, then gave the logs a 
parting blow that set the sparks flying, and came 
back to her husband, saying: 

“That’s done.” 

“Thanks!” he replied, in a low voice and 
rather sheepishly. 

She was afraid that he might be too effusive 
in his acknowledgments. It seemed to her that 
it would be embarrassing and rather ill-timed, 
and she turned away from him to escape his 
display of gratitude. Hearing nothing further, 
she could not help giving him a look. He had 
closed his eyes and seemed to be dozing, whereon 
she was conscious of a feeling of disappointment 
that she had not received what she felt she so 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


59 


richly deserved — a word of praise, a look of 
thankfulness. 

“Bah!” she said to herself, “when do we ever 
get our deserts?” 

Edmee returned to her book, a little sad at 
heart, reflecting that Mine. Yerseley, had she 
been in her place, would doubtless have acted 
differently. An hour passed. The silence was 
complete. Fontenoy’s breathing even was only 
audible when she lent her closest attention. 
Edmee continued her reading, but the words 
had no meaning for her. She was thinking of 
a multitude of things as she turned the leaves 
of her book : of her girlhood, the early days of 
her marriage, the gradually increasing aliena- 
tion that had succeeded, and the long period of 
moral separation that came after. It was at 
that time that her husband began to assert his 
independence and indulge in flirtations, flirta- 
tions which now were dead, reduced to ashes 
and cast to the winds of heaven, like the bits of 
blackened paper that had once been love-letters, 
and that now, drawn up the chimney, were 
fluttering about the neighborhood and falling 
in the mud of the street, there to be trampled 
under horses’ hoofs! 

“Ah, how little it all amounts to!” she 
sighed, dropping upon her lap the hands that 
held the book. “Of all those womea who pro- 
fessed to love him there is not one who would 
tc-day care to watch by his bedside for an hour. 
The task is left to me. Yes, but I am his wife.” 

A look of pardonable pride rose to the soft 


60 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


golden-brown eyes, and Mme, Fontenoy raised 
her head to a more erect posture. Then, in a 
mirror facing her, she beheld her own face. 
She saw herself in the lamplight, which im- 
parted to her complexion luminous tones of 
ivory and gold. The charming oval of her 
pretty face, the chestnut hair which formed 
for it a frame so nobly pure, the rich curve of 
the lips that needed no cosmetic to insure their 
redness, the delicately shaped ear, which with 
its trembling dewdrop of a diamond awakened 
memories of pink shells of ocean — She saw 
that at thirty-eight she was fresh, un fatigued, 
and fair to look upon; far younger in looks 
than most of her more juvenile acquaintances, 
made prematurely old by the use of paints and 
dyes. 

“It is surely my reflection that I am looking 
at,” she said to herself; “and yet of what ad- 
vantage are my good looks to me?” 

She smiled, however, with faint irony. What 
advantage? Yes, truly! And yet she felt that 
she would prefer to be as she was rather than be 
otherwise. 

Fontenoy no longer required to be watched as 
closely as he had been. A bell placed within 
his reach would enable him to summon the 
servant who was to replace Edmee, and would 
be within call in the adjoining dressing-room. 
After having made sure that everything was 
as it should be, and that her husband was sleep- 
ing, or feigning to do so, she retired to her 
apartment. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


61 


Only three days had elapsed since she left her 
room to come to Gilbert’s assistance. Standing 
once again at the foot of her own bed the inter- 
val seemed to her to be of months, or, at all 
events, of weeks. The invasion of her ordinarily 
uneventful life in this summary manner by so 
many startling incidents and impressions wa,"? 
calculated to make her thoughtful. While mak- 
ing her toilet for the night, she reviewed those 
three days, hour by hour and minute by min- 
ute, and suddenly this reflection occurred to 
her: 

“It was because he thought he was about to 
die that my husband made me burn his papers. 
If I were to die, is there anything I should wish 
not to leave behind me?” 

She ransacked her memory and could think of 
nothing. Then she likewise unlocked her little 
desk, in which, together with her jewels, she 
kept the trifling objects that served to remind 
her of her past. 

There were a few letters from friends of her 
girlhood — those eminently decorous and uninter- 
esting productions that young ladies of sixteen 
or seventeen delight in exchanging— some relics 
of her father and mother, gifts from her hus- 
band, and three letters from him, dating back 
to the period of their engagement. 

She was closing the drawer with a sigh that 
was part pity, part contempt for the poor 
trumpery, when she changed her mind and 
took out Gilbert’s letters in order to give them 
another reading. ♦ 


62 


AN OLD FOLKS' WOOING, 


The sight of the handwriting, now faded and 
yellow after the lapse of many years, inspired in 
her a profound emotion. She feared she should 
cry over the missives, and v/as about to return 
them to their receptacle unread ; but she plucked 
up courage and perused them all from beginning 
to end. 

What could she have ever seen in them to 
excite in her the transports that they had done 
twenty years ago? Verily, it required the im- 
agination of a girl of eighteen to discern that 
those correctly phrased and properly punctuated 
sheets were love-letters! It was quite true that 
the proprieties did not admit of Gilbert’s laying 
bare his soul in burning effusions; but real ten- 
derness would illuminate the bottom of a well, 
and in those lucubrations there was neither ten- 
derness nor passion. The most that could be 
said for them was that they demonstrated him 
to be a person of correct literary taste, and 
showed that he liked her a little better than 
other girls. 

Impelled by a sensation of feminine anger 
and mortification, Edmee made for the fire- 
place. The letters of the fiance were about to 
share the fate of those of the husband’s pretty 
friends; but she curbed herself and restored the 
gayly decorated portfolio to its resting-place. 

“If I should die before he does,” she said to 
herself, “let him find them there and read them. 
It will be his punishment if he ever thinks of 
what he made me do this night.” 

She closed the desk, got into bed, and soon 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOINGo 


63 


was enjoying the refreshing slumber of one who 
has watched three nights. 


VI. 

‘‘What an uncle! Oh, what an uncle! I 
have no use for such an uncle! I want my 
uncle Gilbert to waltz with me at the com- 
mencement of the ball, and take me home at 
its close.’’ 

Seated on a low chair, Juliette was critically 
eying her uncle Gilbert, who appeared not to 
have paid extremely dear for his experience. 
There were a few threads of silver in his beard, 
which had attained quite a length, and his head 
was more frosted than it had been ; but he really 
made a very presentable appearance for a man 
returning from such a journey. 

“You will give an entertainment, uncle, if 
you please — an entertainment, with dancing, in 
celebration of your recovery.” 

“Oh, no; not with dancing,” Edmee smil- 
ingly replied. “We should have to take up the 
carpets, and that is a thing that has never been 
done in this house.” 

“They shall be taken up, my dear aunt. 
Don’t you send your precious carpets away 
to be shaken in the spring and put them down 
again in the autumn? Well, you will give your 
party when your carpets are up — the week before 
the Grand Prix. That’s my royal pleasure. 
You must know that I have taken the notion 


64 


AN OLD FOLKS" WOOING, 


in my head that there has got to be a dance 
here, and I have promised little Descrosses there 
should be. He wants a chance to lead a faran- 
dole on a huge scale — one that will reach from 
the laundry ’way downstairs to the kitchen. 
So ! as my nurse used to say when I was little. 
You know my will, aunt.” 

‘‘We’ll see about it,” Mme. Fontenoy placidly 
replied. “What do you make of your little 
Descrosses nowadays?” 

“That is a society game, auntie, adapted to 
young ladies’ boarding-schools. What do you 
make of him, where do you put him? Do you 
know that the more improper a thing is the 
funnier it is? But don’t be alarmed; I’m not 
going to be improper, or, at least, not very. 
What do I make of him? Nothing — less than 
nothing. What could you expect a young 
woman to make of a briefless lawyer who 
can’t get the judges to listen to him?” 

“Juliette! ” Edmee exclaimed; “I assure you 
that if people heard you—” 

“If people heard me? Ah, my dear aunt, 
that’s just it. They do hear me, I have the 
awfully bad habit of thinking out loud, so 
you can imagine! And to think that I do it 
even in the street! I was walking with Miss 
Lane on the Boulevard Malesherbes the other 
day. I hadn’t anything very particular to say, 
and yet I was thinking out loud — not so very 
loud — and to Miss Lane! You can see that it 
couldn’t have been anything very particular, 
for she couldn’t have understood me. Well, 


AN OLD FOLKS" WOOING, 


65 


there were two gentlemen walking behind us. 
They followed us as far as the Parc Monceau 
— listening, of course. Did you ever hear of 
such impertinence! So I kept making my 
little reflections in a general way, and they 
probably thought I was referring to them, for 
they disappeared in the park. It was well for 
them they did! ” 

Gilbert laughed. His return to life had 
brought with it a fresh fund of good-humor 
and even of mental youthfulness, as is apt to 
be the case when circumstances beyond our con- 
trol banish us from the world for a time and 
force us to live more simply. 

“If you don’t mend your ways, Juliette,” ob- 
served Mme. Pontenoy, “we shall have a hard 
time of it to And you a husband! ” 

“Do you really think so, my darling aunt?” 
the young girl airily asked, wheeling round upon 
her chair to bring herself facing Edmee. 

She was altogether delicious, with her glossy, 
fine black hair, that curled as naturally and was 
as lustrous as that of the Louisiana creoles. Her 
eyes were not very large, but they sparkled with 
animation and shone with the brilliancy of black 
diamonds; while her mischievous smile, that 
brought one corner of her mouth down slightly 
lower than the other, imparted to her counte- 
nance a particularly alluring charm, Edm6e 
smiled too and made no further answer. With 
that face and a dowry of a million it would not 
be so very hard to arrange a match for her, 
after alL 


66 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


“By the way, uncle,” said the irrepressible 
maiden, turning to Fontenoy, “I have seen 
your protege again.” 

“My protege?” 

“Yes, certainly. Fabien Malvois the good- 
looking. Aren’t you the man who has it in 
charge to find a wife for him?” 

“I don’t know that I am — particularly.” 

“Oh, very well, then! that’s the talk among 
the girls, though. You needn’t be angry, al- 
though it does give you somewhat of a — of a 
grandfatherly air to fill the position of bear- 
leader. You are hardly old enough yet for that 
function; but that’s the talk, I do assure you.” 

“You say that you have seen him again?” 
asked Edmee. She felt that it was not safe to 
go too far in chaffing Gilbert, whose temper was 
not always to be relied on. 

“I should rather say I had! During uncle’s 
illness I went out several times. It was 
mamma’s sister-in-law, the dreadfully tire- 
some one — you know her, don’t you, Aunt 
Edmee? — well, it was she who chaperoned me. 
You may be sure that I will always give you 
the preference, and will never try to beat you 
down in salary. Three times I was in houses 
where there was dancing, and three times I met 
handsome Fabien.” 

“What did he say to you?” inquired Gilbert, 
who felt an interest in the young man. 

“He said to me: ‘Don’t you think, mademoi- 
selle, that Mme. Fontenoy’s dinner was a great 
success?’ ” 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


67 


‘‘He had to say something to begin with,” 
Edmee charitably remarked. 

“I never said he hadn’t, auntie; only, you 
know me ! His observation called for an 
answer.” 

“You make me shudder!” said Gilbert with 
a laugh. “And what may have been your 
answer?” 

“ ‘Yes, sir; but the greatest success of all 
was Mme. Verseley’s gown.’” 

“Oh!” Edmee ejaculated. in a tone of conster- 
nation, while Fontenoy dropped his eyes and 
intently scrutinized the pattern of the carpet. 

“You will see that he is not wanting in pres- 
ence of mind. He looked me in the face, and 
asked me, very calmly: ‘I believe Felix makes 
her gowns, doesn’t he?’ ” 

“Good!” said Mme. Fontenoy, who had had 
time to regain her self-possession. “You de- 
served it.” 

“Yes, my dear aunt, I admit that,” Juliette 
declared with evident satisfaction. “But you 
must own that such a conversation is not com- 
monplace, and goes a great way toward making 
up for the stupidity of a quadrille. That was 
what happened the first time. The second time 
he said to me: ‘What a great blessing the elec- 
tric light has proved. Before we had it, one 
couldn’t dance with any comfort on account of 
the heat; and now one might almost say that 
the room is actually cool.’ That was while we 
were waltzing. I took it for a compliment; for 
you have waltzed with me, haven’t you, uncle? 


68 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


and you know I am as light on my feet as a 
little bird. Then I smiled very sweetly and 
asked him if he could skate. There’s repartee 
for you, auntie ! Come, have a little indulgence 
for the poor candidate who is doing her best to 
pass a good examination.” 

“And the third time?” 

“Oh, the third time the ice was broken and 
we got on famously. Until something new 
happens we are the best friends in the world.” 

“Why do you say until something happens?” 
Mme. Fontenoy asked. 

“Because things can’t go on as they are going. 
They are moving too smoothly. Folks will think 
I am going to marry him.” 

“Where would be the harm in that, and why 
shouldn’t you marry him?” asked Gilbert. 

“Why should I? I know no more of him than 
I do of the rest of them ; and not such a great 
deal less, it’s true.” She was silent, and her 
pretty face became almost serious. Presently 
she went on: “When I was a little girl I used 
to have the queerest notions about marriage. 
Perhaps you imagine that it appeared to me 
in the light of a sacrament? Not a bit of it! 
It always made me think of a great ball-room 
with an enormous chandelier. The married 
couples waltzed around under the chandelier, 
and that was marriage. After they got through 
dancing they were to live together all the re- 
mainder of their lives. Well, I’ve given the 
subject a good deal of thought since then, and 
that’s not the way of it all. And there are 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


69 


lots of girls who think that that is all there 
is to it, or pretty nearly all. A round of little 
entertainments, the dinner to celebrate the en- 
gagement, the big ball at the signing of the 
contract, and the nuptial mass at a fashionable 
church to wind up with — my waltz under the 
chandelier, you know! Only we don’t dance 
any more nowadays. The rites are conducted to 
the sound of music. That’s pretty much the 
way of it, I admit; but there’s something else!” 

“What?” asked Fontenoy. 

“That part about living together all their 
lives. For it wouldn’t look well for the couple 
to admit there was a possibility of their suing 
each other for a divorce some day, would it now? 
I don’t mean to deny that it may happen, but 
it is not to be regarded as a necessary accom- 
paniment of the marriage. Very well, then. 
You see that the two ideas, dancing under the 
chandelier and living together forever after, 
don’t harmonize. There is incompatibility, as 
little Descrosses would say.” 

“What is your friend Descrosses’s Christian 
name?” Gilbert inquired, thinking it high time 
that the conversation should be changed to some 
less risky topic. 

“I don’t know. Nobody knows. Those who 
are intimate with him call him Little Decrosses ; 
others just address him as Descrosses. It is not 
his fault. There are dogs that have no other 
name than Tonton. That’s not their fault, 
either.” 

“She is astonishing!” exclaimed Gilbert, 


70 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


throwing himself back among his cushions 
with an exhausted air, as if Juliette’s chatter 
had brought on the pains in his back again. 

The young girl rose. 

“I must tear myself away,” she said, regret- 
fully. ‘‘I’m going to give my royal highness 
an airing, so that she may look bright and fresh 
this evening; for there is another dance again 
to-night, auntie. My fifth new gown this win- 
ter! It is lucky that Lent is so near at hand. 
Take good care of yourselves, both of you. I 
hold you in the highest respect and considera- 
tion, my dear uncle and aunt ; but, for all* that, 
you are much younger than I.” 

Whereon she made them a sweeping, old-time 
courtesy and left the room. 

“Happy age!” said Fontenoy. 

“Happy nature!” replied his wife. 

He heaved a sigh, and appeared to be absorbed 
in contemplating the glowing embers. 


VII. 

Fontenoy’s recovery appeared to be complete. 
The only evidence remaining of the great shock 
he had received was a slightly increased gravity 
of demeanor, a somewhat diminished fluency of 
speech. His friends had not been allowed to 
know the peril he was in. Edmee had given 
out that he was suffering from a severe cold, 
and Gilbert had approved her judicious course 
and thanked her for it. 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


71 


‘‘They would not stop short of saying that I 
had lost my mind and become a driveling idiot,” 
he said. 

But if his outer appearance was nearly the 
same, the moral man had undergone a change. 
When we have been hovering for days in suc- 
cession on the confines of the -unexplored realm 
of darkness, there remains to us a sort of mys- 
terious horror, a terrified bewilderment, as after 
a vision, and we regard life with a respect which 
we never felt before. Even when he had rounded 
the buoy and was commencing his return voyage 
from that dread country, the remotest that our 
mind can conceive of, recovering his faculty of 
thought at the same time as his perception of 
physical suffering, he had believed that it was 
all over with him. That was the day when he 
asked Edmee to burn his papers. She — who was 
but a woman — could not divine what that re- 
quest had cost so brave a man as Fontenoy ; but 
it had left him in a sadly shaken state. A few 
words from his doctor — short, but to the point — 
had served to complete the metamorphosis. 

“Men have no sense,” said the great man. 
“They want to remain young too long, and 
sooner or later they pay for their folly. You 
should consider yourself fortunate to have 
escaped this time with a warning. You may 
live many years yet and be hale and vigorous; 
but to do it you must bear in mind that a man 
at fifty is not the same as a man at twenty-five. 
If you choose to forget it, a second attack of 
this nature may prove extremely dangerous. I 


72 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


have spoken plainly and given you fair warn- 
ing.” 

Fontenoy was attached to life, and to preserve 
it, felt himself capable of modifying the condi- 
tions of his existence since it was necessary to 
do so. He was a man of refined tastes. He 
had no real vices and maintained none for the 
sake of ostentation; hence, it would be easier 
for him than for many another man to obey 
directions, which, after all, did not tax his for- 
titude very heavily. To go to bed a little earlier, 
to eat a little less heartily; these are only trifling 
sacrifices, and Fontenoy submitted to them with 
good grace. 

He was somewhat surprised to see how readily 
his wife adapted herself to this new way of liv- 
ing. He had thought she was fond of society; 
and so she was, indeed, but simply from habit, 
not because she craved it. What can a woman 
do, alone in a big house, with no children to 
look after, and whose husband spends all his 
evenings away from home? In her friends’ 
drawing-rooms she finds acquaintances to con- 
verse with, and if here and there she picks up 
a crumb of real friendship that is so much clear 
gain for her. Why should she not avail herself 
of this agreeable way of killing time? 

To kill time! That is the chief occupation of 
those who, thanks to their wealth, are blessed 
with such opportunities to use it to advantage. 
The fortunate ones of this world rise when the 
day is half ended and go to bed as others are 
commencing their daily toil, and from the mo- 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


73 


meat of their rising until they seek their couch 
their one single object is to get rid of the min- 
utes that lie between them and death. 

That was not Edmee’s case, however. In 
company with a number of intelligent women, 
she belonged to various societies of a literary 
and charitable nature, that served to occupy 
her afternoons occasionally. Furthermore, she 
could endure with equanimity the prospect of 
being left alone of an evening with a book or 
a review, and this was the means of affording 
her husband an extremely agreeable surprise 
when he found himself compelled to stick more 
closely to his fireside. 

However, after a few weeks of a sort of semi- 
inactivity, he experienced a desire to resume his 
position in that world where one so quickly be- 
comes an object of pity, then of contempt, a 
species of social castaway as it were, if he fails 
to keep in the swim. Two or three dinner par- 
ties announced that his convalescence was at an 
end. It fatigued him less to have people come 
to him than it did to go to them, so he resolved 
to entertain more than he had done in the past; 
and, in this, too, he found his wife ready to sec- 
ond him. 

One day in April he received a visit from 
Fabien Malvois, who, with the most solicitous 
attention, had been assiduous in inquiring after 
his health, and, later on, in calling. After the 
usual salutations the good-looking young man 
proceeded to enlighten his host as to the reason 
of his present proceeding. He desired to know 


74 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


what his chances would be if he should enter the 
field as a suitor for the hand of Mdlle. Juliette 
Chassagny. Her appearance pleased him; he 
had found her intelligent and charming; they 
were on an equality in point of fortune; he was 
ready to put in his proposal if there seemed to 
be a prospect of its being considered favorably. 

‘‘Surely you can have no serious doubt of 
that?” said Fontenoy. 

Fabien hesitated a moment. 

“I don’t think that Mdlle. Juliette regards me 
with disfavor,” said he; “but you know her 
much better than I do. I cannot tell, under the 
mask of animation and liveliness that she uses 
to conceal her real thoughts, whether she has a 
liking for me or whether she simply looks on me 
as an agreeable partner — ” 

“Perhaps you are a little exacting,” said 
Gilbert, with a smile. “It is often the case 
with young ladies that they merely await a 
favorable opportunity of manifesting their sen- 
timents ; and then, too, we are not so romantic 
as we used to be — do you think we are? I don’t 
see but what the match, so far as you are both 
concerned, would be a most suitable one. Speak- 
ing for myself, I should be delighted to see it 
arranged. Would you like that I should speak 
to my wife?” 

“I should be ever so much obliged.” 

Chance was propitious and afforded Fontenoy 
an opportunity of redeeming his promise with- 
out much delay. That same day, after they 
had dined, having spent the two preceding even- 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


75 


ings in attendance on social functions and not 
feeling like going out again, he announced his 
intention of remaining at home; whereon his 
wife instructed her maid to put away the gown 
and ornaments that the abigail had taken from 
their resting-place. 

“So, my dear,” he smilingly said, ‘‘you don’t 
object to our spending the evening together by 
the fireside, like the old married couple that we 
are? Are you quite certain that you won’t be 
bored?” 

“So far as I am concerned I have no fears. 
Our absence won’t please Juliette very well. 
She always wishes to stay till the end, and 
knows that she can depend on me to humor 
her; but it will be quite as well for her if her 
other aunt takes her home a little earlier than 
usual.” 

While speaking Edmee had risen and got her 
work-basket, and was selecting skeins of vari- 
ously colored wool. 

“What are you making there?” asked her 
husband. 

“Oh, things for poor people: socks and 
knitted petticoats. ISTot very handsome, but 
nice and warm.” 

“That is a capital idea and a good action. 
You were speaking of Juliette just now. Don’t 
you think it is about time we were thinking of 
providing her with a husband?” 

As Edmee did not answer Fontenoy contin- 
ued: 

“Malvois was here to-day to have a talk with 


76 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


me. He is ready to propose. He is not ’objec- 
tionable to you, I think?” 

“I do not object to him,” said Edmee, taking 
up her long ivory crochet needle. 

“Well, is that all? He is an excellent match. 
The alliance will be most suitable. He has 
wealth, education, good looks, good temper, 
everything. Have you nothing to say?” 

“I am compelled to give my assent to all you 
say, my friend. He has everything.” 

“Very good. If that’s the way you feel about 
the matter, will you speak to your sister?” 

Deliberately Edmee laid her work down upon 
her lap and answered : 

“No.” 

Greatly surprised, her husband looked at her 
attentively and became aware that the look she 
exhibited on her face at that moment was one 
he had never seen there before. 

“No? And why not?” said he. 

“My friend, I beg you will not take offense at 
what I am about to say. After a union of 
twenty years, it would be inexcusable in me 
to rake up old sores or attempt to raise fresh 
difficulties. You are a gentleman, and a friend 
for whom, believe me, I entertain a very real 
and sincere attachment; but has it occurred to 
you that when we were married our situation 
and prospects were almost identically the same 
as those of Juliette and your young friend?” 

He nodded his head in assent to her propo- 
sition. 

“Well, my friend, I should hate to see 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


77 


Juliette, twenty years hence, in the mental 
condition that I am in to-day.” 

‘‘Have we not been happy together?” asked 
Fontenoy, but with a sort of mental reservation 
that made him feel a little uneasy. 

“I suppose, and am glad to believe that you 
have been. As for me, candor compels me to 
answer: No.” 

“Why — but you have never allowed me to 
suspect — ” 

Edmee smiled, with just the faintest indica- 
tion of satisfied pride. “Of course; and if we 
were not now — not man and wife, but old friends 
who can talk to each other, I hope, with per- 
fect frankness, I should have never said a word 
to you of this; but inasmuch as your questions 
have a bearing on Juliette’s case, I owe you a 
straightforward answer: ‘I wish my niece to 
be happier than I have been, and I don’t want 
to see her marry under the same conditions that 
prevailed at my marriage.’ ” 

“But what has been wanting to insure your 
happiness?” 

“Very little: only love.” 

“Oh, come, my dear, you don’t mean that! 
You are aware with what sincere affection — ” 

“Yes, my friend, I know. You have loved 
me as much as you could, and as the opinion of 
the world demanded; but it was not love.” 

Fontenoy, a little disturbed by the turn the 
conversation had taken, shifted uneasily in his 
fauteuil, and finally got up and stood with his 
back to the mantelpiece. 


78 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


“Real love,” Edmee went on, in her gentle, 
deep voice, “genuine love — love, in a word, does 
not weary and faint by the way at the end of a 
brief period of time. When a man and woman 
love, the trials of life, far from parting them, 
only serve to bring them nearer to each other. 
They grow old together, connected by ties that 
are constantly growing closer and dearer, and of 
which age may change the nature but not the 
strength. They have the same ideas, the same 
friendships, the same tastes, though neither may 
necessarily on that account lose his own indi- 
viduality, and when old age draws near they 
are not afraid, because they know they will de- 
part together with the same hopes, for the same 
bourn. And that, my friend, is the dream that 
I am cherishing for Juliette.” 

Fontenoy was affected, but nerving himself 
to put a good face on the matter, he replied 
with an indulgent smile: 

“That is the old story of Philemon and Baucis 
that you are giving me, my dear Edmee, and 
we are getting close on to the twentieth cen- 
tury.” 

“Such marriages are to be met with every- 
where; alike in the lower and in the higher 
classes of society, and it is my belief, my friend, 
that they are the only truly happy ones.” 

“That may be true, but they are rare. We 
can’t all of us look for such unadulterated felic- 
ity. Perfect men and women are scarce in our 
generation.” 

“One need not be perfect to love,” Edmee 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


79 


rejoined, somewhat sadly. ‘‘All that one has 
to do is to love, nothing more.” 

“But — we have loved !” Gilbert insisted. 

She looked him frankly in the face. “No,” 
said she. 

He averted his eyes. To be told that one has 
not been loved by his wife, even when one has 
ceased greatly to care for her, and twenty years 
have rolled by since one’s marriage, is not alto- 
gether flattering to one’s vanity. 

“I did my best to love you,” Edmee con- 
tinued. “If you had only — but you could not 
help it. You did not love me, and I gave up 
trying.” 

She spoke with her accustomed gentleness, 
sobered by a slight tinge of melancholy; that 
past among whose embers she was raking was 
so remote, so far away! 

“I was too young,” she resumed. “I did not 
know myself. To-day I can see wherein I erred. 
But youth has flown and left us. We have many 
years before us yet, however. I hope with all 
my heart that they may be years of happiness 
to you.” 

“I thank you,” said Gilbert. He would have 
liked to give her his hand, nay, perhaps take 
her to his bosom, as a recompense for her si- 
lence and patience during that long period of 
time, but he was afraid of making himself ri- 
diculous in her eyes; and she appeared so un- 
concerned, moreover, that he was not sure she 
might not be displeased. 

“As for Juliette,” she went on, in a less se- 


80 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


rious tone, ‘‘the question is not of the past, but 
of the future, and we must do our best that that 
future may be a bright one. She was saying the 
other day that when people marry they never 
know whether some day they may not be di- 
vorced. That was a step toward recognition 
of that remedy, sometimes necessary, always 
cruel, that ought never to be resorted to except 
as a last resource, when, all other means having 
been exhausted and life having become unen- 
durable, the only choice lies between it and 
death.” 

“Most assuredly!” Fontenoy emphatically as- 
sented. “I know, speaking for myself, that, 
even if I were unhappy, I would far rather bear 
the burden of my misery than see my private 
affairs laid open to the gaze of a greedy 
public.” 

“Perhaps that is because you do not know 
what it is to be unhappy,” said Edmee. “Those 
are matters that can be rightly appreciated only 
by those who suffer. But rest assured, my friend, 
that by far the greater part of the divorces whose 
increasing frequency we view with such sorrov/ 
and apprehension can only be attributed to the 
fact that the marriages that went before were 
concluded as ours was.” 

“As ours was?” said Fontenoy, wonderingly. 

“Yes, exactly. A young girl is married to a 
man, of greater or less capacity for pleasing. 
After a while 'he draws apart from her — she 
draws away from him — not without suffering 
perhaps; and then, some day along comes an- 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


81 


other man who loves her and who tells her so. 
She is perfectly honest. She feels she would 
like to marry the one who promises to love 
her. The other one had only promised to be 
her husband. And that is why so many mar- 
riages that seemed as if they ought to last for- 
ever endure so short a time. We are born to 
love, all of us here on earth, whatever our con- 
dition.” 

Gilbert listened with more and more surprise 
to these words of semi-worldly wisdom as they 
dropped from his wife’s lips. Of course, man 
is born to love; he had seen that for himself; 
and certain women, too, since he had been loved. 
Could it be that the irreproachable women — the 
^ white sheep of the flock — were also going to de- 
mand that a place be reserved for them at the 
great banquet of love? The world would be 
turned topsy-turvy. 

‘‘It is for that reason that I wish to see 
Juliette happy and loved,” Mme. Fontenoy con- 
tinued. “I would be willing to concede a great 
deal to attain that end. I don’t want her to 
marry that little Descrosses; he is not worthy 
of her. But, such as he is, I would rather see 
her his wife than your friend’s, if she really 
loved him.” 

Gilbert was silent. Suddenly he raised his 
head : 

“And suppose Malvois loved her — what 
then?” 

“With a real, genuine love?” 

“Yes; with what you call genuine love.” 


82 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


‘‘Then let him show it! Let him gain her 
l3ve, and I will be his best friend and advocate.” 

‘‘But, my dear,” said Gilbert, rather super- 
subtilely — he felt that he had not shone with 
great brilliancy thus far in the conversation — 
“by what token are we to recognize genuine 
love?” 

She raised her fine brovfn eyes to her skeptic 
husband’s face, and tranquilly replied : 

“By suffering!” 

“Then poor Fabien is to be subjected to the 
tortures of a masonic initiation?” he said, in a 
tone of levity. “Will it take long?” 

“He shall be subjected to nothing at all, my 
friend,” Edmee replied, without appearing to 
be nettled by the question. “Those children 
do^^not know each other. Let them have a 
chance to become acquainted, to see something 
more of each other than they can do in society. 
Let them mutually find out each other’s faults 
and make sure that they can put up with them; 
for if they are some time to find oqt that they 
cannot get along together in harmony, won’t it 
be better for them to acquire the knowledge now 
rather than hereafter when it is too late?” 

“You speak like a book,” Fontenoy assented. 
“Then you are for a fair and square trial?” 

“A fair trial beforehand — under certain rules 
and restrictions, of course — will be better than a 
foul divorce afterward.” 

“Those be words of wisdom!” said Gilbert. 
“Well, we’ll see what comes of it. If you will 
invite Juliette down for a portion of the sum- 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


83 


mer I will see to it that Fabien is in the neigh- 
borhood. Will that be agreeable to you?” 

‘‘Perfectly.” 

Nothing more was said. The silence was 
oppressive. After a little Edmee spoke up^ 
rather timidly : 

“You are not angry with me, my friend?” 

“Why should I be angry? Because you spoke 
to me with frankness? I should say that it is 
you who have the greater reason to complain, 
inasmuch as I have failed to realize your expec- 
tations. But I confess I did not think myself 
such a great sinner. We see our neighbors 
everywhere around us living as we do, and 
they don’t seem to be the worse for it. It is 
a question of how one looks at it. What o’clock 
is it? Only ten? I think I will step around to 
the club.” 

He had risen and was making for the door. 
She stopped him with an imploring gesture. 

“I beg you won’t stay out late!” 

“I shall be careful not to. I know the inter- 
est that you feel in my welfare, and also what 
I owe you for watching over it so tenderly.” 

He came back from the threshold and touched 
his lips lightly to the hand which his wife did 
not extend to him. 

“Good-night,” he said, and vanished. 

Edmee folded up her work and tossed it in 
the basket, then retired at once to her chamber. 
The calmness that she had displayed through- 
out their conversation must have been assumed, 
for no sooner was she alone than her pent-up 


84 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


feelings relieved themselves in a violent out- 
burst of indignation. 

“The ingrate!” she said. “Really, lam too 
good to him! He deserves — ” 

She never told what Gilbert deserved, for at 
that moment her wrath was extinguished in a 
flood of tears, which she made haste to dry. 
But far into the night she lay tossing on her 
bed, sad, weary and discouraged, 

“And yet I ought to be satisfied,” she re- 
flected along toward morning, “ for Juliette is 
safe, for this time at least!” 


VIII. 

If any one had predicted to Mme. Fontenoy 
twenty-four hours in advance that she was 
about to tell her husband — bearding the lion 
in his den, as it were — so many extraordinary 
truths and enunciate ideas so repugnant to all 
the accepted conventions of society, she would 
have been greatly astonished. In that unpre- 
meditated declaration of principles she had sud- 
denly, and entirely without forethought, eased 
her mind of all the grievances and disappoint- 
ments of a lifetime. It was a veritable sur- 
prise. If she had thought the matter over 
beforehand she would never have dared to plan 
the attack, and still less carry it into execution. 
But Fontenoy was even more astonished than 
his wife. It was as if a paving-stone had been 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


85 


flung into the stagnant marsh where his con- 
jugal indifference had been slumbering so many 
years and had aroused a deafening clamor, a 
regular batrachian symphony of croaking, with 
which his ears rung again. 

How! Mme. Fontenoy had not been happy? 
She had not found that life of moral somnolence, 
agreeably diversified by her social avocations, 
the paradise he had supposed? He was tempted 
to be vexed with her. Really, now, a well-bred 
woman like her ought not to come maundering 
to him with her sentimental notions — especially 
when they were retrospective. For what good 
purpose can it serve to rake up old matters that 
a man can do nothing to remedy? Really, Mme, 
Fontenoy would have shown more discretion and 
better taste if she had kept silence on those 
theories of hers. He had never asked her to 
divulge them. But she had not given that proof 
of her superior wisdom, and her husband was 
disgusted and annoyed. What was he to do 
now? 

To one who has not a flint where his heart 
should be there is nothing more unpleasant than 
to know he has been the cause, even involun- 
tarily, of a state of affairs that has resulted in 
real suffering;, and this feeling is intensified 
when it is a question not of a single fortuitous 
accident, but of the good or bad employment of 
a lifetime. It was certainly not Fontenoy’ s 
fault if his wife took it in her head at that 
juncture to exhibit romantic tendencies when 
during all their married life she had seemed 


86 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


extremely reasonable; but that disposition was 
undeniably there, and if she could not lay down 
the law for her husband — there was no question 
of that — she had none the less framed a sort of 
indictment against him. Now I ask you can- 
didly, could ‘there be anything more unkind, 
when it was time the offense was outlawed? 

Ail at once the sky of Fontenoy’s meditations 
grew dark as at the moment when the storm is 
at its height: too late? What had Comte For- 
est told him? That Edmee had never appeared 
more beautiful — and it was the truth. In his 
proprietary capacity he had admitted the im- 
peachment, not without satisfaction. She was 
thirty-eight years old. Fontenoy had read 
Octave Feuillet and knew the time of life 
when the crisis may be expected. Suppose 
Edmee, fairer than the day, at an age when 
reason, duty, religion even, cannot always be 
relied on to still the imperious voice of nature, 
should conceive the fancy to gather the late 
roses of her summer season before her beauty 
faded, \vhat would then be the condition of 
affairs in that hitherto peaceful household? 

Fontenoy had his foot on the first step of the 
club staircase when this dire contingency pre- 
sented itself to his affrighted imagination. A 
servant had relieved him of his overcoat, he had 
merged the individual in the clubman. He had. 
a mind to ask for his overcoat, leave the build- 
ing, and continue his meditations in the street; 
but a vague impression — reminding him of an 
occasion when that manner of communing with 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


87 


himself had not resulted quite as he could have 
wished — restrained him, and he abandoned the 
idea. He would reflect on the matter later. 

The first person he set eyes on was Fabien. 
A fortunate encounter! There are days when it 
would seem as if everything was bound to go 
against you; this state of affairs, moreover, is a 
well-known fact; it is classified and registered, 
and is called being down on one’s luck.” Fa- 
bien was conversing with a man of fine presence 
and attractive face whose acquaintance Fontenoy 
had not yet made. He tried to slip by unnoticed, 
and thus avoid an interview that he had no 
stomach for, but his relative had seen him and 
was already holding out his hand. 

‘H was not expecting to see you,” he said. 
‘Hs it on my account that you are here?” 

“No — not exactly,” Fontenoy replied. 

To dismiss the subject he cast his eyes around 
the room. Fabien thought that he desired a 
presentation to his interlocutor. 

‘ ‘ Monsieur d’ Argilesse — Monsieur Fontenoy, ’ ’ 
said he. “Monsieur d’ Argilesse is a great friend 
of mine ; something of an explorer and a great 
bibliomaniac — ’ ’ 

“ — phile,” D’ Argilesse corrected, with a smile. 
“It has not attained the proportions of a mania 
yet.” 

“It is not far removed from it, my dear friend, 
when a man pays two thousand francs for a 
single binding. But, to resume my introduction 
— whom I met in the course of my travels in 
Ceylon — ” 


88 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


“Quite a distance from the boulevard,” again 
the traveler interrupted, “whither he was always 
longing to return ; for it is there that one has 
most opportunities to meet his friends.” 

The three men conversed discursively on va- 
rious subjects. Fontenoy, delighted with the 
chance afforded him of delaying the moment of 
his tete-a-tete with his cousin, fastened on the 
newcomer, who proved most agreeable. He was 
one of those men in whom one can divine the 
existence of a multitude of attractive qualities, 
while not quite able to tell whether those quali- 
ties will stand the test of time. But that is a 
requirement that is not exacted in society. 

D’Argilesse left them presently, however, to 
take his place at one of the card-ta,bles, and Fon- 
tenoy felt that the inevitable moment was come. 
He suffered himself to be haled away to a sofa, 
and submitted with the resignation of despair. 

“Well,” asked Fabien, “have you good news 
for me?” 

“Yes, and no,” replied the unfortunate rela- 
tive, mentally reverting to the memory of an ex- 
cessively unpleasant half hour. ‘,‘My wife does 
not decline your proposition, but — really, I don’t 
know how to express myself. I had supposed she 
was more positive, more practical. A woman, 
you know, sometimes desires for others things 
that — In a word, she has conceived a notion 
that her niece ought to make a marriage of in- 
clination.” 

Fabien did not appear the least bit sur- 
prised. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


89 


‘‘Why, that strikes me as reasonable enough. 
I must tell you, so far as I am concerned, that 
had I not felt an inclination for Mdlle. Chas- 
sagny, neither her beauty nor her fortune would 
have sufficed to inspire me with the wish to make 
her my wife.” 

“Of course — of course,” said Fontenoy, his 
mind a tangle of recollections and meditations. 
“Everybody knows that we don’t want to marry 
a girl unless she suits us. But that doesn’t quite 
come up to Mine. Fontenoy ’s expectations. I 
a.m afraid she’s just the least little bit romantic. 
In a word, my dear Fabien, she insists that you 
should make yourself loved — with real love ! Sim- 
ply to please won’t answer.” 

Malvois had so far preserved silence, his eyes 
bent on the floor. Suddenly he raised his head 
and looked his relative in the face with a look of 
honest frankness that the latter had never re- 
marked before. 

“Well,” said he, “my cousin is right.” (It 
was the first time he had ever used that appella- 
tion in speaking of Edmee, and Fontenoy was 
surprised.) “She is perfectly right. Life is a 
sufficiently uninteresting affair, at best, if we 
don’t infuse into it the best we can get out of our- 
selves. Come, my dear friend and cousin, just 
look at it. We shuffle the cards here all the 
evening; we sup across the way, or elsewhere; 
in autumn we hunt; in spring we attend the 
races, and so forth, and so forth. And those are 
the occupations that serve to fill the existence of 
an idle man — for that’s what we all, or nearly all. 


90 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


are in our set. Don’t you think that a little 
speck of love, the genuine article ; that which is 
not bought or sold; that which costs us neither 
remorse nor actions that we have to blush for 
afterward— don’t you think that something of 
that sort would look well in the life of an honest 
man?” 

“Of course — of course,” repeated Fontenoy. 

“And our children, if we have any, are they 
not the stronger, handsomer and braver for being 
the issue of a genuine affection, instead of a 
caprice sanctioned by the law? And the future 
—ah ! the future. It presents itself to me in 
radiant colors. Old age creeps on us gently^ and 
we never notice its approach. For a lifetime our 
habits have been the same, we share the same 
ideas of men and things, we have got over quar- 
reling and are good friends, we play bezique to- 
gether when the children are married and gone 
away. Really, it is a pleasure to look forward 
to old age. Tell me, cousin, have you ever re- 
flected on old age?” 

‘ ‘ Sometimes, ’ ’ said Fontenoy, without confess- 
ing that his reflections on the subject were of 
recent date. 

“Well, then you must have pictured it to your- 
self as abounding in sunshine and gladness, for 
if there is a person in all the wide world who 
promises to give one the idea of a glorious au- 
tumn it is Mme. Fontenoy, if one may judge by 
the performance of her radiant summer. And 
look here, I am going to tell you all that is in 
my mind. I should never nave thought of Mdlle. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


91 


Juliette had it not been that she is so like her 
aunt. ’ ’ 

“Do you think so?” said Fontenoy, a little 
disconcerted. 

“Haven’t you noticed it? There’s the same 
expression, the same form, the same way of car- 
rying the head. Fifteen years hence Mdlle, 
Juliette will be — at least I hope so, for her sake 
— the very image of her aunt as she is now. 
My dear cousin, will you please tell Madame 
Fontenoy that, so far from finding fault with 
her edict, I submit to it with joy ? I am ready 
to wait as long as she shall desire, provided only 
she will let me have a little hope. ’ ’ 

“That is for you to say. You ought to know 
by this time whether you are agreeable to Juli- 
ette.” 

“I have told you. I am entirely ignorant 
whether I am or not. But if it is necessary to 
find out, find out I will; or, at least, I’ll try my 
best to do so. But you must afford me oppor- 
tunities to make myself agreeable.” 

“That is no more than fair. We’ll see to it.” 

“And to-morrow I will come and thank my 
protectress — my protectress unawares to herself. 
You’ll admit, won’t you, that if her severity re- 
sults in bringing about a love-match, I shall owe 
her a debt of eternal gratitude? But you don’t 
look as if you believed it.” 

“Oh, yes — oh, yes — only — ” 

“Only what?” 

“Let’s not be in too great a hurry, my young 
friend. Suppose you contract this marriage over 


92 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


which you are so enthusiastic for the moment, 
aren’t you afraid that, in the future — ” , 

‘‘Afraid of what?” 

“Eh! how should I know? Well — of creating 
bad precedents, of mortgaging your freedom in 
the future, of finding yourself the slave of a 
woman’s whimsies.” 

Fabien laughed heartily. “You talk like a 
regular old skeptic,” said he. “You remind me 
of Forest. I see how it is. You don’t want to 
own up to your happiness ; you are afraid of ap- 
pearing ridiculous. Come, I’ll keep your secret; i 
I won’t tell anybody that you are the most for- 
tunate husband of our generation. But you 
must help me to become like you.” 

“I wonder if ho was making game of me?” 
Fontenoy thought, as he went and took a seat at 
a whist- table. “Or is it really true that Edmee 
and I have the appearance of such a loving 
couple? What he has seen of us has been for s 
the most part since my sickness, and it is an un- [ 
deniable fact that she was exemplary — yes, that’s j 
the word, exemplary. But if matters are going 
to continue in the same way, the thing will be- 
come a bore. ’ ’ J 

As he was leaving the house, he found him- | 
self face to face with D’Argilesse, who asked 
if he might be allowed to call on him. 

“Why, certainly, with the greatest pleasure!” 
Fontenoy replied. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


93 


IX. 

When Fabien presented himself in Mme. 
Fontenoy’s drawing-room to express his thanks, 
he found Juliette there. It was a piece of good 
luck on which he had not reckoned. As a mat- 
ter of course, it had been agreed that the young 
girl, externally at least, should appear ignorant 
of his proceeding. But everybody knows what 
those negotiations mean ; hence Malvois was a 
little ill at ease, and could not quite convince 
himself that Juliette really knew nothing of the 
business. She was as lively and as full of rep- 
artee as ever, with her pretty, bird-like airs, 
and the young man had to admit that her 
naturalness was more than a match for his di- 
plomacy. She was continually interrupting by 
irrelevant and apparently innocent remarks the 
circumlocutory phrases by means of which Fa- 
bien endeavored to express to Mme. Fontenoy 
his gratitude and obedience, so that Edmee, who 
was highly amused by the novelty of the situa- 
tion, finally adopted the expedient of sending her 
on an errand to the kitchen in order to be rid of 
her for a moment. 

“Yes, aunt. I’ll go,” she replied, after an 
astonished silence, and with so droll an air of 
surprise that Edmee could scarce refrain from 
laughing. Even Fabien found it difficult to re- 
press a smile. When she had vanished, he turned 


94 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


eagerly to Mme. Fontenoy in order to avail him- 
self of the opportunity which he knew must be 
brief. 

“You have been very kind and very prudent, 
madame,” he said, “and I thank you a great 
deal more than I am able to exjiress in words. 
If my desires are realized, I shall be indebted to 
that prudence for the highest happiness that can 
befall an honest man — one who is devoid of am- 
bition of any kind, either political or literary. ’ ’ 

“It all depends on you,” replied Edmee, whose 
face had assumed a thoughtful look. “In that 
case your happiness will proceed from yourself, 
who will have invoked it and brought it within 
your grasp. Many would have passed it by with- 
out so much as giving it a thought.” 

“Do you believe that?” said Fabien with sur- 
prise. “Is it not altogether natural?” 

“That depends. So far as I can see — this is 
intended as a compliment — your ideas on the 
subject of marriage are somewhat English.” 

“Oh, madame! and French too, I assure you. 
A great many of my friends have married under 
the same conditions that you are imposing upon 
me, and have been the better for it. Only a few 
days ago, in — how shall I designate it? — in 
official circles, we danced at the wedding of a 
young couple who were head over ears^ in love 
with each other. And I pledge you my word, 
it’s an actual fact that the walls of the minister’s ' 
dwelling looked down on the proceedings and 
did not crumble away for horror ! But you are 
entirely right in compelling me to fight my own 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


battle, and earn a recompense that I desired to 
obtain on too easy terms. Trust me; I will 
prove myself not unworthy!” 

He spoke warmly, with just a tinge of rail- 
lery, as if he feared he might appear ridiculous. 
But Edmee did not consider him in the least ri- 
diculous, only enthusiastic and very young, not- 
withstanding the thirty years which he was not 
afraid to acknowledge. She answered him with 
a smile and an approving nod. She saw Juliette, 
with a face unusually sedate, coming toward 
them through the two connecting rooms of the 
suite. Her experience of difficult situations of 
the present nature being small, she had some 
trouble in hitting on a subject of conversation 
that did not appear unnaturally strained, and 
Fabien, whose back was to the door, was about 
to proceed with his eulogy of conjugal love, when 
she suddenly interrupted him by asking : 

“Have you been to see Salammbd?” 

“No, madame,” he replied with presence of 
mind, “but I am expecting to go next week.” 

Juliette, from the threshold, eyed them with 
a mocking smile. Assured by the young man’s 
answer that her presence was no longer unwel- 
come, she came in, and almost immediately Fa- 
bien took his leave. 

When he was gone, Juliette came and sat 
down on a low stool at Edmee ’s feet, a position 
that she particularly affected, and gravely said 
to her: 

“Aunt, this is not your day, and you know 
we had' arranged between us to spend our after- 


96 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


noon peacefully in shopping. Will you have the 
kindness to tell me why you received M. Mal- 
vois? And why. to make matters worse, did 
you receive him downstairs here, in the apart- 
ments of ceremony?” 

‘ ‘ My dear, ’ ’ Edmee replied, ‘ ‘ since your uncle’s 
recovery we only receive our intimate friends 
upstairs, and M. Malvois is not one of those.” 

“Yes; but ho aspires to be one,” Juliette re- 
torted without raising her eyes. “Come, my 
best of aunts, that is Jesuitical, you know; you 
only answered half my question. But never 
mind. I’ll let you off the other half. And now, 
will you please inform me why you sent me 
away just now? I’m afraid your inventive fac- 
ulties are not as alert as they should be, if you’ll 
excuse me for saying so. If things are to con- 
tinue in this way, you’ll have to call in one or 
two of my young friends to give you a few les- 
sons.” 

“Continue in what way? What do you mean, 
Juliette?” said Edmee, beginning to look grave. 

“Why, this little game of yours! Come, my 
dear aunt, be frank. Does M. Malvois come 
here on your account, or on mine?” 

“Upon my word, Juliette,” said Edmee, with 
some irritation, “I don’t see what I’m going to 
do with you!” 

“There, my dear, pretty aunt, don’t, please 
don’t be angry, I beg you ! Suppose men should ; 
pay you a little attention, would there be any- ; 
thing so strange in that? If I were to speak my t 
mind right out in meeting — But you’ll scare j 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


97 


me to death again, with those big eyes of 
yours!” 

‘ ‘ I don’t see how you can make matters worse, ’ ’ 
said Edmee, impelled by an unacknowledged 
curiosity concealed under a laughing manner. 
“You can speak out. I won’t eat you.” 

“Then I will proceed. The strange part of the 
business, it strikes me, is that you don’t receive 
more attention than you do. The men hang 
round other women, when there’s not one of 
them that can begin to compare with you for 
good looks — and that’s as true as Gospel!” 

“ ‘If your voice were like your plumage — ’ ” 
said Ivime.. Fontenoy, with a laugh. “Yfhat 
sublimity of cheek ! I suppose it is to secure 
forgiveness for your impertinence that you re- 
sort to such shameless flattery?” 

“You know very well that I am speaking the 
truth,” Juliette imperturbably replied. “And 
you know very well too that all women have 
their admirers. There are some of them, in this 
respect, who are — I don’t want to say what 
they are, but I can tell you the thing disgusts 
me enough when I see it ! While, as for you, 
you are a beautiful swan, solitary on the bosom 
of the lake. You don’t want to hear any more 
of my poetic effusions? Well then, auntie, it is 
useless to beat about the bush any longer, for 
you are too intelligent not to see what I am driv- 
ing at. As M. Malvois did not come to see you 
to-day, which is not your day, and as you manu- 
factured a pretext for sending me away so that 
you might have a chance to talk with him at 


98 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


your ease — it follows, don’t it, that it was on my 
account that the gentleman gave himself the 
trouble to visit your hospitable mansion?” 

“You are insupportable!” replied Edmee, un- 
able to keep from laughing. “Supposing it were 
on your account, what would you think of it?” 

“Aunt, your question is too indefinite, and, 
moreover, it is not one that I can answer with 
propriety. I have already had occasion to re- 
mind you that it is not good form for young 
ladies to think of gentlemen^ — or, at least, speak 
of them — until such time as the aforesaid gen- 
tlemen may have stated their intentions.” 

“And supposing he harbors an intention of 
making such a statement, provided you encour- 
age him to do so, at some future day?” 

“ ‘Dunque io sou quella felice!’ ” trilled Juli- 
ette, after the manner of Rosina in the “Barber 
of Seville.” “It is to me the royal favor is ac- 
corded — or will be, if I approve. Do I approve? 
That is the question.” 

“You are anticipating,” said Mme. Fontenoy, 
fearing she might have said too much. “Mat- 
ters have not gone to the length you suppose. 
This is the situation : if M. Malvois is agreeable 
to you, and if you continue to be agreeable to 
him^ — ” 

“Then I am agreeable to him?” 

“If you are, it is not by reason of the extreme 
sobriety of youi language.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed the madcap girl, “I never 
give him time to reflect that I am tiresome.” 

“I can believe that ; you talk all the time. The 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


99 


pleasure of your conversation may fall on him in 
the end, however. To state the matter in a nut- 
shell, if in time you and he feel certain that you 
can live together happily, then your uncle and 
I, and consequently your mother, who will be 
guided by our advice, will do nothing to hinder 
your marriage. And now, Juliette, give me 
your attention and try to be serious for a mo- 
ment. This is a subject that we must not trifle 
with, my child. If you do not feel a genuine 
inclination for M. Malvois, say so at once. No 
one is justifled in sporting with a man’s affec- 
tions, inspiring him with confldence, allowing 
him to believe he may be loved, and then after- 
ward abandoning him. It would be wicked, 
worse than an error — it would be a crime.” 

“How solemnly you speak, dear aunt. You 
almost frighten me,” said Juliette, deeply 
moved. “You are as pale as a ghost!” 

The thoughtless girl threw herself on Edmee’s 
bosom and strained her to her heart, at that mo- 
ment fllled with a vague feeling of alarm. 

“There,” said she, looking at her lovingly, 
“your color is beginning to come back ; that’s 
because I hugged you so hard. So you think I 
am a wicked girl, do you? Oh, my pretty Aunt 
Edmee, I don’t want to be naughty. One has to 
go before the criminal court, doesn’t she, when 
she has been naughty? I don’t want to have to 
go to such a place ; it must smell awfully there, 
with all the prisoners and the policemen— phew ! 
You laugh! Yes, it is yourself; my dear aunt 
is restored to me again ! So you are very, very 


100 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


strict — very inexorable on the catechism of mar- 
riages of inclination. Marriage is a sacrament ; 
it is in the catechism. Perhaps there is nothing 
said in it of marriages of inclination, though. 
But that’s neither here nor there. And you 
won’t allow me the least little bit of flirtation — 
just the slenderest, tiniest suspicion? It would 
be so innocent, and so nice!” 

“Innocent?” 

“With a lady’s lover, and nice — with some 
one else. No, no, no, auntie, I didn’t say it. 
Don’t be angry. I retract, I eat my words, I 
take it all back ! I think it all the same, though, 
you know.” 

She laughed until the tears came, but was 
withal a little hysterical, as Edmee could per- 
ceive. When she had kissed her and allowed 
herself in turn to be caressed for a moment, she 
endeavored briefly to recapitulate the situation. 
But her niece took the words out of her mouth. 

“The sum and substance of it is, if I have un- 
derstood you aright, that I am engaged and not 
engaged, and it is all extremely clear. You don’t 
think so? To me it is perfectly pellucid. M. 
Malvois is to come to this hospitable mansion and 
be accorded unlimited opportunities of paying 
his court to me. But in order that the arrange- 
ment may not be too boldly self-evident, other 
men are to be invited at the same time. In the 
others’ eyes I shall be a marriageable young 
lady ; in his I shall be just my plain unadorned 
self, so that he may have a chance to see me as 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


101 


‘‘That’s it, exactly!” said Edmee, in amaze- 
ment. 

“Unless, that is — ^unless another man should 
chance to come along, my charming and adored 
aunt, whom I loved better. In which case you 
would not, I suppose, compel me to marry the 
first aspirant?” 

“Certainly not. But in that event you should 
let me know at once, to avoid exciting hopes that 
were not to be realized.” 

“Of course. Otherwise, I am to be dragged 
before the judge, eh? But now for my side of 
the bargain. I am to be at liberty to turn my 
alleged suitor inside out and examine him in all 
his aspects, to make inquiries about him in case 
it be necessary, and ascertain if his character is 
all right, if his heart is a heart of gold or only 
base metal plated — plated jewelry is a great deal 
worn this year, so the fashion journals say, at 
least. I hope, for their sake, that the jewelers 
don’t pay their advertising bills in kind ! And, 
in conclusion, I claim the additional privilege of 
stirring him up a little now and then, so that he 
may not think his bird is too willing to be cap- 
tured, which would be humiliating to my dig- 
nity. Are my terms accepted, auntie — is it a 
I bargain?” 

“ Yes ; but use your opportunities with modera- 
tion,” said Edmee. “Tell me frankly, though, 
was it not to make me laugh that you said all 
those things? You have a little kindness for 
him, haven’t you?” 

“If I had not felt kindly toward him, my dear 


102 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


aunt, I should have sent him packing long be- 
fore this. You know very well that subjects 
are plentiful enough with me. The vivisection- 
ists always find dogs at the pound, and we heir- 
esses have no difficulty in finding lovers in soci- 
ety. Are you shocked at my cynicism? Wait; 
it is nothing to what it will be when I am mar- 
ried.” 

She ran away to the piano and began to prac- 
tice scales, and the tremendous din drove the 
last of Edmee’s scruples from her head. 


X. 

D’Argilesse, when presented to Mme. Fon- 
tenoy, produced an odd impression on her. He 
interested her much as a picture-book might 
have done, and she was a little afraid of him, as 
we are afraid of a work that we are not to read 
and that has been placed within our reach by a 
person whom we distrust. The result of this 
complicated condition of affairs was a rather 
eager desire to see him again, and, when seen 
again, to see him once more. 

Nothing could have suited him better. And 
so she encountered him everywhere, at all those 
functions which people of fashion grace with 
their presence during the month of May ; and 
those occasions are often more than diurnal. 
After a few days she was forced to acknowledge 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


103 


to herself that he had fallen suddenly in love 
with her, or else that he was feigning with great 
adroitness — so adroitly that to doubt him seemed 
an injury. As was to be expected, Fontenoy 
had conceived a liking for this new acquaintance, 
and never failed to bring him to his wife when- 
ever they chanced to be in the same place. Comte 
Forest, who had come up to Paris to see the 
Salon, the chestnut- trees in bloom, and the pretty 
women, so he said, joined Fabien and a few 
other men in forming for Mme. Fontenoy that 
species of body-guard which, whether she will 
or no, attends the steps of the mistress of a 
friendly house whenever she takes her walks 
abroad. Juliette profited by the occasion to 
submit Malvois to a series of small trials, from 
which, thanks to his imperturbable good humor, 
he had, so far, emerged victorious. The affairs 
of the little band were going on swimmingly, 
and all its members seemed to be having a good 
time. 

“That ball, auntie —how about it?” suggested 
Juliette, one Friday, as they were leisurely 
strolling in the sculpture gallery of the Salon 
in the Champs- Ely sees. “Ycu promised me a 
ball.” 

“A ball? Promising involves performance, 
madame,” said Fabien to Mme. Fontenoy. “If 
you have promised, we must dance.” 

“I did not promise anything,” Edmee replied 
with a smile. 

“Yes, yes; you did promise, auntie! Surely 
you can’t have forgotten?” Turning to Fabien, 


104 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


who was with D’ArgildSSo a little way behind, 
she added, explanatorily: ‘‘It is in pursuance of 
a vow she made last winter when my uncle was 
sick ; if he reco'^/ered she was to give a ball of 
thanksgiving.” 

“That,'’ said Fabien, with an unmoved face, 
“is inviolable. When will you fulfill your obli- 
gation, dear madame?” 

“Is it quite inevitable? I won’t attempt to 
deny that — ” 

“It’s all on account of those horrid old car- 
pets,” interjected Juliette, over her right 
shoulder. 

“The carpets? But we’ll go down on our 
knees and take them up ourselves. Don’t let 
that be an excuse. Where is Fontenoy, so that 
we may offer our services at once?” 

Edmee’s look went roving down the long gal- 
lery, where busts innumerable were displayed, 
some high, others low ; these looking to the right, 
those to the left ; sometimes with a scowling ex- 
pression, again with a smile on their face — ex- 
actly as we see them in real life. 

During the last hour she had several times 
caught sight of her husband fluttering about 
different women — if it be not a misuse of terms 
to apply the word flutter to a person so dignified 
in all his proceedings as Fontenoy was. She 
had seen him gradually edge up to a group, in 
the midst of which Mme. Verseley was display- 
ing her charms, and linger there a few minutes ; 
then he had taken himself off to some other 
quarter, and she had lost sight of him. 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


105 


“My uncle is over yonder,” said Juliette, 
“talking to that green woman.” 

Mme. Verseley’s gown was of dark blue 
with azure trimmings. But Edmee understood 
perfectly her niece’s meaning, who, ever since 
the evening of that dinner which had left her 
with such an unpleasant impression, had always 
spoken of the lady periphrastically, never calling 
her by name. So, he had gone back again to 
that creature? What the strange attraction 
could be that drew him to her was more than 
Edmee could understand. 

“Monsieur Malvois, won’t you be so kind as 
to go and tell my uncle to come and talk with us 
about the ball. We might as well get it off our 
hands while we are about it.” 

Fabien left the group, which continued to 
make its way slowly tow^ard the exit of the hall. 
After a little parleying he returned with Fon- 
tenoy, whom Juliette immediately engaged at 
close quarters. 

“There’s no retreating now, uncle,” she said, 
“ycur ships are burned. I am the guilty one; 
you need not look elsewhere for an object of 
your wrath. I have informed these gentlemen 
that it is your firm and deliberate intention to 
give a ball one of these days. All that remains 
to do is to fix the date. Select an early one, and 
make us all happy.” 

Fontenoy was no more inclined to give a ball 
than he was to start at that moment for Chicago. 
But D’Argilesse was already at w^ork indoctri- 
nating him with his views of how things should 


106 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


be done, as if the dance had been determined on 
beyond a perad venture. He turned to his wife 
and said, resignedly : 

“There’s no getting out of it?” 

“It seems not.” 

“It’s for your honor and glory, uncle,” de- 
clared Juliette. “We’ll put you up on a plat- 
form, and perform a torch dance round you. 
And little Descrosses has promised to invent 
a cotilion — a cotilion that will be remembered 
for ever and a day!” 

“I’ve not the slightest doubt of it,” said Fon- 
tenoy. “Well, my dear, since there is no escape 
for us, what have you to say?” 

Edmee did not answer. D’Argilesse had just 
asked her, in an undertone, one of those seem- 
ingly unimportant questions that left her dis- 
turbed in mind, perplexed, almost frightened to 
find herself talking thus to a man who was a 
comparative stranger, while at the same time 
she was unable to account for her mental dis- 
turbance and feeling of self-reproach. 

“Edmee!” said Fontenoy, in a slightly raised 
tone. 

She started, and turned toward him. D’Argi- 
lesse had fallen back, and was conversing with 
Forest. It was Fabien, standing behind her, on 
whom lighted the husband’s look of surprise. 

“Pardon me, my friend,” said she, her face a 
little flushed, “you were asking me — ” 

“What you think of this ball?” 

“I think that Juliette will never forgive us if 
we deny her this gratification. And as she is a 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


107 


spoiled child, and we can’t afford to quarrel with 
her — ” 

‘‘That settles it. When shall it be?” 

“Some time in Grand Prix week,” Juliette 
declared in triumph. “Don’t you appreciate my 
generosity? I have given you fifteen whole 
days — days of twenty-four hours.” 

“Much obliged,” said Fontenoy. “Well, we 
must act in accordance with such lights as are 
given us. I must avail myself of your experi- 
ence, Malvois, and yours too, D’ Argilesse. For, 
ridiculous as it may appear to you, we have 
never had a dance in our house before this.” 

“Oh, uncle, you need not lament that circum- 
stance. There have been dinners enough to make 
up, ’ ’ said J uliette. ‘ ‘ I hope I shall be consulted ? ’ ’ 

“Of course you shall. You shall have two 
votes. If it suits your convenience, gentlemen, 
we’ll meet at my house to-morrow, about three 
in the afternoon, to see what is to be done. ’ ’ 

They separated, and each went his way. 
Comte Forest, who was to dine with Fontenoy, 
took a seat with the ladies in their open car- 
riage. 

“Well, uEjle?” said Juliette, on seeing that 
he did not f jlow the comte’s example. 

“Thank you, I’ll walk home.” 

He moved away in tx .e direction of the Arc da 
Triomphe, followed by Edmee’s gaze. 

“Irregular in his attendance at meals?” For- 
est inquired of Mma. Fontenoy, whom he was 
scrutinizing closei r. 

“Ho; veryregmai. He always comes home 


108 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


to dinner, or in case he doesn’t, notifies me in 
advance.” 

“Ah, very good, very good!” the old man ap- 
provingly replied. ‘ ‘ And that D ’ Argilesse, have 
you known him long?” 

“No; only a very short time.” 

“Do you like him?” 

Edmee refiected a moment. “I don’t know,” 
she replied, turning her pretty brown eyes on 
the old friend of the family. 

“I don’t like him a bit,” asserted Juliette. 

“Why not, if you please, mademoiselle? What 
has the gentleman ever done to you?” asked 
Forest, to whom her outspoken ways were a 
source of amusement. 

“Nothing. But I doi^’t like him because he 
makes queer remarks that astonish you, as if he 
had dropped a paving- stone into your plate of 
soup. I don’t like people who say things that 
the rest can’t understand.” 

“Who ever heard the like? Perhaps you’ll 
think differently as you grow older. ’ ’ 

“Not I — never ! ” said J uliette, red dening with 
indignation. 

“Nevertheless, if your lover should have 
something to say to you, you wouldn’t want him 
to shout it from the housetops?” 

“Oh, that’s when we’re trying to get married. 
That’s not the same thing at all,” said she. 

Forest turned to Edmee. “And they say that 
the race of ingenues is extinct!” said he, with a 
smile. “It cannot be denied, though, that they 
are no longer fashioned on the model of 1830.” 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


109 


Fontenoy made his appearance at the dinner 
hour, seemingly in the best of spirits. Although 
he exhibited the sedateness of a man of steady 
habits, Forest watched him with some curiosity. 
It would not be correct to say that he had been 
surprised by the mishap that had followed so 
closely on the warning he had formerly given 
Gilbert, but it had served to show how timely 
was his advice had it been regarded. The house- 
hold in which, for some years past, he had mani- 
fested only a languid interest, was now suddenly 
become to him an object of engrossing interest. 
Something was occurring, or was about to occur, 
in that quiet and eminently respectable family. 
And Forest knew enough of life to feel assured 
that that something, whatever it was, was mat- 
ter for regret. The frankness with which Mme. 
Fontenoy had answered his question concerning 
D’Argilesse proved to him that there was noth- 
ing irreparable as yet in that quarter ; but the 
least mistake on Fontenoy’s part, the slightest 
deviation from the path of propriety, might re- 
i suit in a state of affairs that afterward it would 
I be impossible to control. 

I ‘‘What a fool my friend is!” Forest reflected, 

! while enjoying the exquisite dinner that was 
placed before him. “He has a charming wife, 

' frank, honest and fresh as a daisy, and he goes 
elsewhere searching for^ — what? Something far 
inferior, certainly, to what he has before him 
every day of his life. And here he has reached 
the age when successes among his own class are 
rarely to be met with. If he doesn’t look out 


110 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


he will fall into the clutches of a set where tri- 
umphs are expensive — in every way. And, 
meantime, his wife will be making little reflec- 
tions of her own. She may be the very personi- 
fication of all the domestic virtues, but there is 
nothing more insidious than those same reflec- 
tions. And they might be so happy ! I will 
keep my eye on that D’Argilesse!” 


XI. 


The ball was at its height. Little Descrosses 
had promised that the cotilion should be some- 
thing unique of its kind, and had kept his word, 
thanks to Fontenoy, who had given him unlim- 
ited credit with the shopkeepers. 

“Oh, uncle!” Juliette exclaimed, when the 
favors came, “it is easy to see that you are a 
green hand. Xo one ever does things twice on 
a scale of such magnificence!” 

She danced with an animation tbxut seemed to 
render her ubiquitous. One would have surely 
said that there were at least two Juliettes in the 
room, to see how she was everywhere at once, 
always surrounded by a swarm of admirers, 
whom she would motion off with a circular vf ave 
of her fan when their attentions became too op- 
pressive. 

One of these Juliettes belonged de facto to 
little Descrosses, who had placed a lien on her — 
to use his own expression — and, thanks to his 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


Ill 


privileges as leader, monopolized her most shame- 
lessly. The other Juliette did her best to fulfill 
her duties as hostess by providing partners for 
the wall-flowers. But the latter so paled her 
fires before the former, that after a short while 
the ‘‘Monsieur Malvois, will you have the kind- 
ness to see — ” was lost in the maze of ribbons 
and the tinkling of little bells, and M. Malvois 
was left at liberty to direct matters as he saw fit, 
seconded by Edmee, who, as she did not dance, 
kept a watchful eye on the festivities to see that 
they did not languish anywhere. 

At last the cotilion was well under way. As 
a precautionary measure Fcntenoy, who dis- 
trusted little Descrosses’s ingenuity, had given 
orders to lock the two or three doors that were 
threatened by the farandole which had so ex- 
cited Juliette’s enthusiasm some months before. 
Partially reassured as to the inviolability of the 
garret and spare chambers, as well as of the cel- 
lar, he left the rest to chance, and went off to 
have a rubber of whist. 

I Edmee, for her part, had at last found a com- 
|j fortable chair in a quiet corner, where a wall of 
t non-dancers afforded her protection against the 
possible irruption of unoccupied mammas. She 
was actually in need of a few moments of silence 
! and repose, which were all the more pleasurable 
to her that she could see the waltzers performing 
their evolutions at a short distance from her re- 
treat. 

Weary in mind and tired in body, Edmee 
yielded to the relaxation of the moment, rejoic- 


112 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


ing in the thought that supper would soon be 
over, and she could go to bed. She had been on 
her feet continuously since morning, goaded on 
by the indefatigable Juliette, who declared that 
she must learn how to give a ball against the 
time she should be married and have a house of 
her own. Suddenly, without her having noticed 
his approach among the dancers, D’Argilesse 
stood at Edmee’s side. 

“You are very tired, dear madame, are you 
not?” said he, slipping into a vacant fauteuil 
that stood close at hand. 

“A little,” she replied, looking absently at 
the groups. They dissolved, formed again, and 
melted away with an elegance which, if modern, 
was none the less devoid of grace. “You are 
not dancing?” she politely added. 

“I have something better to do, since you are 
here,” D’Argilesse replied, with a significant 
glance. 

Mine. Fontenoy experienced a mingled sensa- 
tion of discomposure and annoyance. The man 
had an insinuating way of thrusting himself on 
her that left her undecided what to do. There 
was nothing in his manner that would authorize 
a woman to display resentment, unless she wished 
to subject herself to the imputation of extrava- 
gant prudery. And yet he went much further 
than was allowed by the customs and conven- 
tions of good society. She straightened up and 
assumed an attitude of more reserve. If D’Ar- 
gilesse, thanks to the preparations for the ball, 
had been received in the house during the past 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


113 


two weeks on a footing approaching intimacy, 
now, that pretext having ceased to exist, things 
would doubtless commence to move again in 
their accustomed order, and she would try to see 
they did so. 

“Is it not charming?” said she, in order to 
infuse into the conversation the proper degree of 
banality — “is it not charming to see those young 
people enjoying themselves so thoroughly? For 
it is an undeniable fact that it is solely for young 
girls’ pleasure that balls are ever given. The en- 
joyment that married women take in them ap- 
pears to be entirely conventional. ’ ’ 

“That is because they have other and more 
engrossing thoughts to occupy their minds,” 
D’Argilesse replied. “When we reach the age 
of thirty we feel the emptiness of these frivolities, 
and passion appears to us in its true light — the 
sunshine of our existence, toward which every 
created being turns. Have you ever considered, 
madame, how hollow the life must be that is 
I void of love?” 

The remembrance of the visit she had once 
paid, under such distressing circumstances, to 
the humble parish church rose to Edmee’s mind, 
with a taste of the bitter tears she had shed. She 
I softly shook her head in an indifferent negation 
which she knew to be a falsehood. But why 
j did that stranger come and revive memories on 
which she had studiously compelled herself to 
, silence? 

“The heart is strangely constituted,” D’Ar- 
gilesse continued; “more so than we have any 


114 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


idea of. We are the slaves of habit; yes, of 
habit even more than of convention. We wear, 
and have worn for years, a necklace — it may be 
light or heavy, it may be of gold or of baser 
metal — a necklace of trials and suffering. Neck- 
laces may be of pearls, too, may they not, ma- 
dame? And still, if the cord on which they are 
strung is so strong that it will not break, as hap- 
pens sometimes, they may kill the wearer. I 
saw an instance of that in Ceylon. A Hindoo 
woman was found strangled, whether from re- 
venge or jealousy I know not. A simple twist 
of the necklace that she wore round her neck. 
Think hov/ strong the cord must have been!” 

“Yes, indeed!” Edmee murmured. 

“And still, what could be simpler than to loose 
the clasp that fastens the necklace? It can be 
resumed again when its owner desires to wear 
it. But in her moments of solitude she is free. 

Is it not just and lawful to employ to one’s 
pleasure or profit the commodities of which no 
one takes advantage?” 

He spoke in metaphors and parables, of which 
Edmee grasped the meaning perfectly. They 
were revolting to her pride and honesty, and she 
knew not at what to take exception. The list- 
ener, hearing one of those impersonal phrases, 
could not have told what they contained to offend 
her. The offensive allusions were perceptible to 
her alone. But how c(^uld that man know that 
Edmee 's beauty and intelligence were commodi- 
ties of which no one took advantage? Are those \ 
things patent to the world? j 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOINGf. 


115 


Profiting by the semi-privacy that the move- 
ments of the dancers created round them, D’Ar- 
gilesse continued his remarks, adroit, insinuat- 
ing, dangerous in the highest degree, because 
they seemed to be not the expression of a per- 
sonal sentiment, but simply acknowledged truths. 

“But, monsieur, among your theories what 
place do you assign to duty?” said Edmee, like 
one suddenly aroused from a profound slum- 
ber. 

“There are two kinds of duty, madame — one, 
which society would impose on us, remnant of a 
time when woman, apparently a queen, was act- 
ually held in abjectest slavery; the other, the 
real, the veritable duty, that of the present day, 
of an epoch when each of us is striving to assert 
his individuality and make the most of his at- 
tributes and endowments. The latter orders us 
to give the widest extension to the component 
elements of our nature, in order that we may 
compete successfully with the strength and 
beauty of our time. As for me, if a true woman 
— one of beauty and intelligence, that is — should 
distinguish me with her love, I would do my 
best to leave her with recollections that should 
suffice to fill the remainder of her days. She 
would have learned then that it is worth while 
to live.” 

“That is fine!” came from behind, in old 
Forest’s voice. 

On leaving the whist-table, he had looked for 
the mistress of the house, and descrying her at a 
distance in conversation with D’Argilesse, had 


116 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


made the circuit of the apartments so as to come 
on them unawares. 

“You talk wonderfully well, my dear sir,” he 
continued, dropping into the seat that D’Argi- 
lesse had vacated with somewhat of surprise. 
“But, tell me, are you thinking of getting mar- 
ried?” 

“Why do you ask that?” the dilettante dis- 
trustfully inquired. 

“Oh, for nothing in particular. Only, the 
rooms are full of charming young ladies, and 
now is the time for you to make your choice, or 
never. ’ ’ 

The conversation had lost its charm, now that 
there was a third person to take part in it, and 
D’Argilesse presently went away, not without 
some unspoken remarks of an unflattering tenor 
directed toward the individual whose ill-timed 
interference had endangered the security of the 
conquest he believed he had made. 

Mme. Fontenoy felt ill at ease while chatting 
with Comte Forest, who continued to observe 
her closely. Certain of the words spoken by 
D’Argilesse had gone too straight to the vulner- 
able spot in her moral cuirass. She knew well 
that she had never lived ; she had shrieked it in 
her own ears amid unchecked floods of tears. 
And now that she trusted and believed this secret 
wound was healed, thanks to her many preoccu- 
pations, such as Juliette’s matrimonial affairs, 
the purchase of a place where she designed to 
spend her summers, and many another small 
practical detail of daily life, was she to see its 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


117 


bleeding edges torn apart again by imprudent 
words — imprudent? nay, insolent, all things 
considered, under their varnish of extreme re- 
spect. 

In the tranquil indifference that she had lived 
in until these more recent times, Mme. Fontenoy 
had not given much thought to the attentions 
she had received ; they were evidences of mascu- 
line politeness, she believed, in recognition of 
hospitalities extended, like a basket of flowers or 
a box of bonbons, offered without malice pre- 
pense, and to be accepted in the same spirit. 
Perhaps D’Argilesse’s cautious declarations 
would have been filed away in the same pigeon- 
hole as the rest and labeled, “of no importance, ” 
had not Edmee’s thoughts and feelings under- 
gone a great change. And perhaps too he, who 
was not addicted to wasting his time, would 
have stopped short in the beginning had he not 
seen the discomposure that he was causing, and 
which, through a mistaken vanity, he attributed 
to other than its true motive. It was a mistake, 

I but what general, be he the greatest strategist 
of ancient or modern times, has not some blun- 
ders set down to his account? 

At the conclusion of the ball, supper was served 
to the guests seated at small tables. The idea 
emanated from D’Argilesse, who had no great 
hope of profiting by his ingenuity, for it was 
hardly probable that he would succeed in secur- 
ing a place near Mme. Fontenoy. But the ami- 
able contriver, if he could not flirt himself, was 
not unwilling that others should have an oppor- 


118 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


tunity to pursue that agreeable pastime; the 
sight would afford him a certain gratification. 

To say that Edmee was delighted with the 
aspect of the supper-room would perhaps be some- 
thing of an exaggeration. Still, she saw but 
little to find fault with, unless it might be an 
occasional rather audacious flirtation. Juliette 
was at the head of a table of six, where little 
Descrosses made the seventh. Fabien had come 
in late — was it chance? or had the wicked Juli- 
ette contrived it purposely? — and was seated at 
a remote table. He filled his pretty neighbors’ 
plates, and poured the wine with an awkward 
hand, while his eyes were continually turning 
to the young girl, encountering on the way 
snowy shoulders and touzled heads without num- 
ber, to which he paid no heed whatever. 

Everything in this world comes to an end at 
some time, even tiresome situations, even late 
suppers. The hosts were left standing amid the 
ruins of their salons, which had the appearance 
of having been devastated by a hurricane, lit- 
tered as they were with flowers, bits of tulle, 
scraps of gilded paper — all the refuse and wreck- 
age of the cotillon. 

“AYe are like leaders of a victorious army,” 
said Juliette, ‘Sve’ sleep on the field of battle. 
But you know I can just as well go home, aunt, 
instead of taking the bed you have had prepared 
for me, if my presence incommodes you. What 
time is it? Five o’clock? Really, I don’t know 
whether it is yesterday afternoon or this morn- 
ing. I don’t want to go to bed. I feel a great 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


119 


deal more like taking a horseback ride. What 
do you say to giving me a fencing lesson, uncle, 
right here, now, in my ball-dress?” 

“The best thing you can do is to take your 
candle and go up to your room,” Fontenoy re- 
plied. 

“My candle? Oh, cherished uncle of my soul, 
behold!” 

Juliette ran to the window and parted the 
curtains. The sun was shining brightly into 
the little garden of the hotel, dusting the tops 
of the four great chestnut-trees with gold. 

“It is abominable!” Fontenoy declared. 
“There ought to be a law passed prohibiting 
balls except in winter-time. At that season one 
can go to bed at five in the morning without 
having the daylight stare him out of counte- 
nance, while now — And that confounded elec- 
tricity running at full blast!” 

He gave an order, and the rooms were im- 
mediately shrouded in darkness. But the level 
rays of the June sun found their way through 
the interstices of the blinds, touching in their 
passage the beveled edge of a mirror, the gild- 
ing of the cornice, the shimmering silk of the 
hangings. 

“We are not decent to behold,” said Gilbert. 
“I am ashamed of myself. Good-night, my 
dears; or, rather, good-day!” 

Fifteen minutes later every one was asleep ex- 
cepting Edmee. She had thrown open the win- 
dow of her dressing-room that faced the garden 
and donned a peignoir of white woolen stuff, and 


120 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


curled up in her great comfortable easy-chair, 
repeated to herself those words of D’Argilesse: 

“If one has never known the joys of life, what 
boots it to have lived?” 


XII. 

On the second day afterward — for the first had 
been a dies non for most of those who had par- 
ticipated in the revels — Edmee, soon after break- 
fast, received a visit from Fabien. He appeared 
dejected ; he was even somber, so far as his sunny 
temperament permitted. 

“I inquired and ascertained that my cousin is 
not at home,” said he. “It is for your ear alone, 
dear madame, that my confidences are intended. ” 

“Take a chair,” Edmee kindly replied. She 
also was sad and discouraged, and, therefore, 
inclined to sympathize with the discouragements 
of others. “What is the matter?” 

“The matter is that Mdlle. Juliette does not 
love me, will never love me, and I may as well 
give her up at once. She scarcely danced at all 
with me the other evening. She did not even 
seem to be aware that I was there ; and, at sup- 
per, I was forced to take a seat away at the 
other end of the room. She does not care for 
me, that’s clear.” 

He stopped, his breath exhausted, and perhaps 
his anger also. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


121 


‘‘True,” said Mme. Fontenoy, “I noticed that 
at supper you were not near her, but that proves 
nothing. ’ ’ 

“It would prove nothing if she did not show 
preferences — preferences of which I am not the 
object. That witty little gentleman” — Fabien 
spoke the words with unutterable contempt^ — 
“that insufferable little gentleman who led the 
cotilion engrossed all her actions. I won’t say 
her thoughts, for, unfortunately, I have no means 
of knowing what they were. ’ ’ 

“You do well to say nothing of her thoughts, ” 
replied Edrnee, with a smile. “I don’t believe 
that my niece had two ideas in her head that 
evening that were unrelated to the cotilion.” 

“That may be true, but I was given the mit- 
ten, as plainly as ever a man was. And for 
whom, I would like to ask?” 

Edmee extended her pretty white hand depre- 
catingly toward the afflicted one. ‘ ‘ Come, ’ ’ said 
she, “don’t be tragical; that would be treating 
little Descrosses with more consideration than 
he deserves. Own up! you are jealous of him?” 

If there is one thing more than another that a» 
man is unwilling to admit, it is just that. Fa- 
bien was not sufficiently unlike the common run 
of mortal men to act differently than they. He 
defended himself with teeth and claws ; but Ed- 
mee pressed him hard, and finally, after a heroic 
struggle, he acknowledged himself vanquished. 

“It is true,” he said; “lam jealous. But con- 
fess that there is sufficient reason.” 

“Well, no; there is not sufficient reason,” re- 


122 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


joined Mme. Fontenoy. “At the beginning of 
winter I asked myself, as you did, if Juliette — ” 
“There, you see!” exclaimed the poor fellow. 
“And at the beginning of winter, before I had 
said a word!” 

“Wouldn’t it be as well to let me finish?” 
Edmee calmly asked. “And the answer I made 
myself, after mature reflection, was: ‘No.’ ” 
“To-day, you might ask yourseK the same 
question, and the answer would be, ‘Yes.’ ” 
“No! I say to you. She has neither friend-* 
ship nor esteem for Descrosses ; he amuses her, 
that’s aU.” 

“Oh, very good! If I were married, though, 

I would not tolerate for any great length of time 
a gentleman who made himself so amusing to 
my wife ; I would soon find a way to get rid of 
him by — ” 

Edmee interrupted him, speaking very seri- 
ously. “If those are your real sentiments,” she 
said, “I would not advise you to marry either 
Juliette or any other woman.” In reply to his 
amazed look of inquiry she ^ added : “The young 
» woman of to-day is not to be treated as a child. 
That answered very well for us in old times; 
nowadays young girls enjoy a freedom that many 
consider they are not entitled to, but which no 
one thinks of taking from them, perhaps because 
the task would be too difficult a one. How can 
you expect that my niece, or any other girl, once 
she is married, will willingly submit to restric- 
tions from her husband that her parents never 
dreamed of imposing on her? Juliette has been 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


123 


spoiled a little, it is true, but think how perfectly 
honest and frank she is. Nothing could tempt 
her to do an underhanded thing. ’ ’ 

^‘That’s just the reason why I love her,” cried 
Fabien. “She is adorable, with her impulsive, 
thoughtless ways ; or, perhaps, because of them. 
But if she prefers that fellow to me — ” 

“She does not prefer him, of that you can rest 
assured. Would you be a despot to your wife. 
Monsieur Malvois?” 

“I don’t know, dear madame. I had always 
believed myself to be a decent sort of fellow, and 
not overhard to get along with. I see now that 
I am not quite what I supposed I was. Still, I 
don’t know that there’s enough against me to 
hang me for. And if I really thought that 
Mdlle. Juliette doesn’t love that Descrosses — I 
have been growing very fond of her of late — ” 

“But not enough to prevent your being a trifle 
jealous,” said Edmee, with a kindly smile. 
“Come, can’t you try and be a little reasonable? 
We shall leave Paris soon. Our place is not far 
from Cerisy, where Comte Forest’s chateau is. 
Would you like that he should ask you down 
to spend a few weeks with him? We shall visit 
back and forth a good deal. The freedom of 
country life will give you opportunities to culti- 
vate my niece’s good graces, and if you really 
are not suited to each other you will quickly find 
it out and know what you have to depend on, 
one way or the other.” 

“You are angelically good!” Fabien replied 
with feeling. “It is unnecessary to say with 


124 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


what gratitude I accept your offer, and also how 
desirous I am to be successful in my suit. I 
never thought that the idea of seeing myself 
thrown over for another man could have caused 
me such anger and annoyance.” 

“That is the beginning of wisdom,” said Ed- 
mee. “Didn’t you know that one must suffer 
pain before he can fully appreciate pleasure?” 

By way of answer Fabien bent over Mme. 
Fontenoy’s hand and kissed it devoutly. Fon- 
tenoy, entering at that instant, heard his wife’s 
words and saw the young man’s action. He 
appeared not to notice them, and saluted his 
relative with his usual cordiality, after which 
the two men left the house together. 

Edmee was not left long alone. While she was 
meditating on Malvois’ brand new attack of jeal- 
ousy, which she was inclined to consider rather 
childish, Comte Forest sent in his card. 

When, on the night of the ball, he had inter- 
fered to end a conversation that appeared to him 
to bode no good, the old man had promised him- 
self to give Mme. Fontenoy some information 
regarding an admirer who, as a matter of course, 
had taken pains to present himself in the most 
favorable light. 

D’Argilesse was better known in other quar- 
ters. Very much of a gentleman, but skeptical 
as a man can be, and entirely destitute of scru- 
ples in matters relating to women, he would 
have made great sacrifices to save from ruin an 
acquaintance, or even a stranger, provided he 
was of “the world;” but, with the same un- 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


125 


ruffled tranquillity, would have robbed him of 
his newly married wife. The principles that he 
had set forth to Mme. Fontenoy were not manu- 
factured for the occasion. He applied them to 
himself with real sincerity, carrying to its ulti- 
mate conclusion the maxim that exercises so 
great an influence over the inhabitants of the 
United States, doubtless because an imprudent 
but generous statesman saw fit to insert it in the 
Declaration of Independence ; he said that every 
created being is entitled to his share of hap- 
piness. His happiness lay in feeling the beat- 
ing of his own heart. What men call pleasure 
was repugnant to him ; he considered it vulgar. 
The object of his longing was love. He had met 
with it, now and then. He hoped to find it again, 
and in his researches carried havoc into the 
households of his friends without ever thinking 
that he was doing them a wrong. Has not every 
one a right to his portion of happiness? And 
every one’s wife, too, as well? On the other 
hand, he would not have so much as looked at a 
young girl otherwise than with the eye of indif- 
ference. His best friends, however, asserted 
that that would not last forever, and that he 
was saving them until the last. This he denied 
strenuously, and was sincere. But who can tell 
what thoughts are in the mind of a man of pleas- 
ure when he is beginning to grow old, and losing 
his powers of self-command? 

This was the man, whom his very sincerity 
rendered dangerous, that Forest had undertaken 
to strip of his factitious charms ; but the task 


126 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


was no easy one. Nothing is n ore hazardous 
than to say to a woman, especially if she is 
intelligent: “Distrust that man!” The chief 
danger, in case the malady has not made much 
progress, lies in the fact that she is apt to think 
of him ail the more. Therefore, Edmee’s old 
friend began by beating about the bush and 
touching on a hundred other subjects, trusting 
gradually to narrow down the conversation and 
bring it to the point on which he wished to di- 
rect it. 

But Mme. Fontenoy, who had divined the ob- 
ject of his visit, at first eluded him with great 
adroitness. She was not by any means of a 
Machiavelian temperament, but there is an in- 
stinct in us all that warns us to shun those things 
that are dangerous or disagreeable. She felt that 
she could not hear D’Argilesse’s name men- 
tioned without blushing, and her cheeks tingled 
uncomfortably at the prospect. Perceiving that 
he was found .out. Forest, to use a common ex- 
pression, took the bull by the horns. 

“It was at the club, wasn’t it,” said he, “that 
Fontenoy picked up M. d’Argilesse? There’s a 
little of all sorts to be found in a club, no matter 
how select it may be. Oh, the gentleman is en- 
tirely irreproachable; I have nothing to allege 
against him. But in club life we encounter 
great men of every description, from M. de Cha- 
teaubriand down to Don Juan. D’Argilesse’s 
peculiarities would entitle him to a place in the 
latter category. He is a brilliant man, an ex- 
tremely brilliant man. He has but one defect 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


127 


that I know of, and that is a rare incon- 
stancy.” 

The blow had told. Edmee lowered her eyes 
and bit her lips. Forest courageously con- 
tinued : 

“You are really too squeamish, my child. Like 
the ermine that cannot endure to have its coat 
defiled, your antipathy to all that is base and low 
has kept you from acquainting yourself with the 
seamy side of life, and a little knowledge of those 
matters is as helpful to a married woman as it is 
harmful to a young girl. You have made it a 
practice to dismiss tales of that description by 
saying that they did not interest you, and your 
companions and associates have always been 
pure and noble women. That is an admirable 
trait, and I applaud you for it; but don’t you 
think now that it might be well to increase your 
store of information?” 

“I do not think so,” Edmee faintly said, avert- 
ing her head. 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes, you do ! Fontenoy should have kept 
you posted on these matters. It is a portion of 
the education that every husband owes to his 
wife ; but he appears to have neglected his duty 
in that respect. I am a grandfather, a great- 
grandfather — though unblessed with posterity. 
I am literally crammed with anecdote and infor- 
mation, like a book so filled with notes that its 
covers will not close. I am going to impart to 
you a little knowledge out of my abundance. 
We will begin with Malvois.” 

Edmee pricked up her ears, and looked at 


128 • 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


Forest with astonishment at this unexpected 
termination of his discourse. 

“He is a youth of feeling,” the Nestor of so- 
ciety continued. “He is abundantly endowed 
with intelligence and instruction, and even with 
experience. His chief defect, so far as the fash- 
ion of the time goes, is that he is not a pessimist ; 
but that fashion is even now beginning to be 
out of date, and he is all ready for the next, 
which must inevitably be a benevolent opti- 
mism. A few years will suffice to bring it about, 
and although I am an old, old man, I hope to 
see its advent. It will be a change, and then it 
is so much more cheerful. To come back to 
Malvois, he has laid down for himself as the first 
and chief of all his duties that he is to marry 
without delay. And speaking of duty, he is one 
of those who will afford excellent examples as 
husbands, and, later on, make good fathers. He 
has just the degree of firmness that is required 
to bring up a family of boys in a time when it 
is the fashion to let them do pretty much as they 
please.” 

“It is astonishing. You know him to perfec- 
tion!” Edmee exclaimed. 

“I don’t claim any great credit for it. It is 
only a knack of observing things, ’ ’ Forest com- 
placently replied. ^ ‘ Malvois is a house of glass ; 
one only has to use his eyes to see what is going 
on inside. So, you want him for a husband for 
your little Juliette?” 

“Did he tell you that?” 

“No; I saw it for myself.” 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


129 


is the truth, only the idea did not originate 
with me; it was my husband’s. I am not op- 
posed to it.” 

“And you even favor it, don’t you? For it is 
manifest that you befriend him. You do right.” 

‘ ‘ Since you approve our course, ’ ’ said Edmee, 
seizing the offered opportunity, “invite him 
dov/n to Cerisy, so that he may have a chance 
to pay his addresses to Juliette more uninter- 
ruptedly. I should be glad to see those children 
make a rare marriage. ’ ’ 

“A marriage of love? You are right; it will 
be so much gained from the enemy. You don’t 
comprehend? The enemy, my child, is the mon- 
ster spoken of in Holy Writ that goes about 
seeking whom he may devour. It is the romance 
that you women wish to infuse into your life, 
and, more particularly, that men wish to infuse 
into it, with or without your consent. In former 
times the enemy used to say to women that they 
were not understood; now the expression ex- 
cites derision when employed, but the substance 
remains unchanged. He is not a very sharp fel- 
low, the enemy, and he repeats himself. The 
formula he makes use of to-day is : Ever}^ one 
is entitled to his share of happiness.” 

Edmee ’s dark- golden eyes expressed unuttera- 
ble surprise. “Then you heard what he said?” 
those candid, handsome eyes said to her old 
friend. 

“It amounts to exactly the same thing,” For- 
est continued, passing the unspoken question 
by unnoticed. “To be uncomprehended, or to 


130 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


have a right to a happiness which the husband 
does not give, where is the difference? D’Argi- 
lesse plays his one tune very prettily, and it has 
been the means of affording him more than one 
success. We call it a success when we look on 
it from the man’s standpoint; for the woman it 
is an adventure.” 

These scathing words, apparently uttered with 
perfect innocence of purpose, in falling on the 
silence of the little drawing-room produced an 
effect somewhat like that of a stone tossed into 
a pool of stagnant water. Edmee started im- 
perceptibly, as if a portion of the filth had 
splashed her garments. 

‘‘I do not claim to be better than my neigh- 
bors,” Forest went on after a brief pause, ^‘but 
my life has not been devoted solely to the grati- 
fication of my fancies. It is owing to that cir- 
cumstance that when the time came for me to 
bid farewell to the world, I could do it with 
honor; I won’t say without regret, but at all 
events without remorse. M. d’Argilesse will 
not be able to say as much when he reaches my 
time of life, provided he tells the truth. The re- 
sult is, I have some friends left, women as well 
as men. When he reaches the age of seventy, if 
he ever does, he will have none of either sex ; he 
will have only old companions, and that is an 
entirely different thing. How is Fontenoy?” 

“Very well, I thank you,” Edmee replied. 

She dared not look at Forest. Her lips were 
quivering a little as they do when tears are ris- 
ing, and in the pleasant warmth that came in 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


131 


through the open windows she felt herself icy 
cold. 

“So you are thinking of moving to La Trem- 
blaye,” continued the old man, “and you want 
me to send an invitation to Malvois? I will do 
it without delay. What time will suit you best?” 

“The end of July, if that is con venient for you. 
It will be as well that the young folks should 
not see each other for a little while ; and then, 
my sister is going to Vichy for the benefit of 
the water. Juliette will accompany her, and be 
away six weeks.” 

“Poor Mme. Chassagny! she has not had a 
very happy life of it. A husband who was al- 
ways traveling during his lifetime, and a daugh- 
ter who spends almost her whole time in visiting. 
She must be terribly lonely.” 

“My sister, fortunately,” Edmee rejoined, 
“has always been of a retiring and somewhat 
unsocial bent.” 

“Isn’t that a rather strange remark?” said 
Forest, with a laugh. “Do you consider it for- 
tunate to have such a disposition?” 

“Yes, looking at it in one way. If she had 
been of a more cheerful temperament she would 
have accompanied her husband on his travels, 
and kept Juliette with her. I used to pity the 
poor child in that silent house, where never a 
soul came.” 

“I am not reproaching you, my dear child, 
for having, in a certain sense, adopted her. It 
was well done, and if Mme. Chassagny is fond 
of solitude, she must have had her fill of it. 


132 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


Well, that affair is settled; there is nothing 
more to say, and in a few days I shall be back 
at Cerisy. We are going to be neighbors, and I 
rejoice most heartily in the prospect. The big 
house at La Tremblaye, with its tight-closed 
shutters, was like a blot on my horizon. It will 
be a pleasure to see it wake up and give some 
signs of life.” 

“You can trust Juliette for that,” Edmee re- 
plied. 

This conversation produced a profound impres- 
sion on Mme. Fontenoy. The word “adventure” 
had burned like a red-hot iron. Although she 
had never asked herself into what D’Argilesse’s 
assiduities might ultimately develop — who ever 
has courage to look these actualities directly in 
the face? — she felt that she was not well equipped 
for defense, ^he had listened with too much of 
interest, too much of curiosity, to words that, 
masked under a crafty show of impersonality, 
she knew contained a covert insult. She resolved 
to chastise herself for having listened, and to de- 
vote herself entirely to Fontenoy, whose health 
was not quite all that could be desired. 

That gentleman had been in too great a hurry 
to resume his usual mode of living. As soon as 
our health is restored, or we think it is, we man- 
ifest a disposition to throw physic to the dogs, 
and to treat the doctor as a tiresome kill- joy; we 
believe our constitution to be of iron, and the 
restraints that are imposed on us for our good 
we dismiss summarily as so many attempts 
against our freedom. This course may answer 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


133 


while we are young, but with advancing years 
conies a conviction that regimen is not without 
its advantages. Fontenoy was now passing 
through this disagreeable experience; hence he 
made no very decided objection to his wife’s 
plans for spending the summer at the country. 
Milk was prescribed him, milk should be his 
beverage, and as he was compelled to drink it it 
was better in every way that it should be supplied 
by his own cows. He had never looked with 
much favor on country life when protracted be- 
yond a certain length of time, but with his own 
guests and his neighbors’ he thought he should 
be able to get through the season after a fashion ; 
and since the seashore was prohibited, he would 
try to put up with the banks of the Oise. It was 
in this resigned fashion that he accorded his 
assent to Edmee’s proposition. 

“What have we in the way of neighbors, out- 
side of Forest and his company?” 

Mme. Fontenoy mentioned the names of two 
or three families of their acquaintance within 
easy distance. 

“Fabien will be at Forest’s; that’s capital — 
only he will be taken up with Juliette, and we 
can’t depend much on him. We want some one 
for ourselves ; we had better invite D’ Argilesse. ’ ’ 

“What! him?” exclaimed Edmee, turning 
deathly pale. “Surely you must be joking. We 
shall have Juliette.” 

“Well, what of that? He’s not a marrying 
man ; he’s not on the lookout for a wife. Fabien 
couldn’t take offense.” 


134 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


‘‘All the more reason for not inviting him,” 
Mme, Fontenoy firmly said. “It is out of the 
question.” 

“Decidedly, luck is against me,” said Gilbert, 
in a peevish tone. “I come across an agreeable 
companion, abounding in interesting narrative, 
for he has seen no end of things and relates them 
charmingly, and here you must go and take a dis- 
like to him.” 

“I have not taken a dislike to him,” Edmee 
replied, trembling, partly with indignation, 
partly with sorrow to see how everything con- 
spired to thwart her good intentions; “but it is 
not a proper time to have him in the house. 
Have you no other friends?” 

“If I pass him by, I can’t in common decency 
invite any one else,” her husband grumblingly 
replied. “If you can’t see that for yourself, 
there’s no use in my trying to explain it to you. 
If you have taken the notion in your head that 
we are to have no attractive persons in our house 
until Juliette is married off, well and good; that 
ends the matter. But I hope you will succeed 
in getting her off your hands this year, at all 
events.” 

Edmee made no reply ; what could she have 
said? And, besides, her heart was so heavy 
that she feared she would be unable to keep back 
her tears, so she swallowed her mortification and 
distress in silence and went to look after her 
household affairs. But when she was alone in 
her chamber, looking round her for that mute 
sympathy that we sometimes find in familiar 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


185 


objects — dumb witnesses of our daily life which 
sometimes speak to us so loudly and evoke such 
profound memories — and finding nothing of it 
there, she pressed her hands to her aching heart. 

‘‘My God!” she said, “how hard it is to be 
true and honest.” 


XIII. 

La Tremblaye was a big square house, 
whose aspect was neither feudal nor even im- 
posing. With its many windows, each like the 
other, it offered in its massiveness an appear- 
a^nce of solidity sufficient to defy the fiercest 
storms of winter ; a fact which does not of neces- 
sity imply elegance, as Juliette said, who disre- 
spectfully spoke of it as an old mill “made over.” 

The old mill, however — for the allegation was, 
to a certain extent, founded on fact — had been 
converted into an extremely charming dwelling. 
The former owners had had something to do with 
this; for under their directions the walls had 
been clothed with a prodigious variety of creep- 
ing plants. The north side, in particular, was 
covered with five-leaved ivy, whose pendant 
runners would present in autumn a most bril- 
liant display of every shade of red. In addition 
to the adornment of the greenery, Edmee had 
bought and caused to be put in place a dozen old 
pot-bellied balconies of hammered iron, which 
gave to the somewhat elevated rez-de-chaussee a 


136 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


certain Louis XI 11. air that harmonized agree- 
ably with the pointed roofs. An interior gal- 
lery, connecting two wings built on the two 
banks of a pretty little stream, the Xonnette, 
seemed to afford an argument in favor of the 
mill hypothesis, but it was now pierced with so 
many windows of fanciful design that it had 
been selected by common consent to serve as a 
place of refuge during the hot hours of the day. 
Underneath it the stream could be heard gur- 
gling over its bed of mossy stones, sole remaining 
vestige of the old waterfall. 

‘‘It is our Chenonceaux, ” said Edmee, “and 
in case things should take a bad turn, I don’t 
know that I should mind being the miller’s wife 
in such a mill.” 

Fontenoy, whose taste was very good, put in 
a month agreeably in watching the decorators 
and upholsterers at their work. He was not 
ashamed at a pinch to mount a ladder and assist 
in fixing a rebellious roll of paper on the wall. 
The pleasure of seeing objects, in themselves 
ungainly, assume an artistic appearance under 
our direction is certainly conducive to the de- 
velopment of good humor, as Edmee experienced 
in her husband’s case. To rise early — at eight 
o’clock — to breathe pure air, drink unadulterated 
milk, and go to bed at ten with a wholesome 
sensation of fatigue, these were pleasures which 
Gilbert had never carried to excess, and which 
attracted him not only by reason of their novelty, 
but of their morally as well as materially hygi- 
enic influence. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


137 


It really seemed to him that he was growing 
younger. His life of the preceding winter ap- 
peared to him like one of those hideous dreams 
from which one awakens dazed and helpless, 
with an undefined dread of discovering that 
the dream was reality. And just as, after a 
dream of this description, the pure air entering 
our chamber from without seems to us delicious 
and exhilarating as an effervescent draught, so 
the delight ati finding himself on the hither shore 
of Cocytus him at times to thrill with lit- 

tle shudders of satisfaction. 

“Ah! things are going famously,” he said to 
his wife, one evening, as they were taking the 
air on a terrace that opened off the dining-room. 
“We have got through our month of trial splen- 
didly. What do you say, Edmee?” 

“Of trial?” inquired Edmee, handing him his 
cup of coffee boiling hot and sugared to his lik- 
ing. 

I “ W ell, yes — of solitude, if you like that bet- 

ter. Wasn’t it a trial? We were alone, and, 
judging from my own experience, were not 
] bored.” 

“I am never bored,” said Edmee, in her gen- 
; tie voice. Then, fearing her answer might ap- 
pear pedantic, she immediately amended it by 
I saying: “With a dozen or fifteen workmen con- 
i' stantly in the house, we haven’t even had time 
to read the newspaper. ’ ’ 

Fontenoy smiled and touched his lips to the 
beverage whose aroma filled the air around him. 
Truly, the time had been well spent. His health 


138 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


was better, his moral tone was excellent. The 
utmost he felt when Mme. Verseley’s memory 
came back to him was a slight shock, a sort of 
burning sensation in the temporal region. In all 
probability their outing would come to an end 
without any untoward incident, and in the au- 
tumn he would be able, without danger as with- 
out evil intent, to inaugurate another nice little 
flirtation. Because we are fifty years old it 
doesn’t follow that v/e are to renounce all the 
joys of life, does it? Fontenoy had not the re- 
motest intention of retiring from cho stage. He 
remained a few moments, out of politeness, when 
he had disposed of his cup of coffee, then retreated 
to his smoking-room. Edmee allowed him to 
smoke in her presence, and in addition they were 
in the open air. But a smoking-room afforded 
excellent opportunities for solitary meditation, to 
say nothing of a short nap at times. 

When he was gone, Edmee rang and gave 
orders to remove the tray, then abandoned her- 
self to her reflections. 

She had come down there with an indescriba- 
ble, mysterious joy, with that secret impatience 
which possesses us when life appears to have 
something novel in store for us. To the orderly 
arrangement of that dwelling, where everything 
seemed to indicate that she was to pass all her 
remaining summers and autumns, she had de- 
voted something more than taste and industry ; 
she had infused into it a portion of her own be- 
ing. Now that her task was completed she sat 
with folded hands, slightly discouraged, under 


AN OLD FOLKS ^ WOOING. 


139 


the influence of a strange impression for which 
she did not endeavor to account, and whose sig- 
nificance might be best expressed by the ques- 
tion: ‘‘Is that all?” 

She certainly had not hoped that the old mill 
would afford her an entirely new existence, but 
she had perhaps looked forward to finding there 
some recompense for her labor. A recompense? 
Oh! a very, very small one, almost nothing — 
what? She could not tell, and the absence of 
that intangible something for which she herself 
could not find a name made her sad, then sadder 
still, until finally she was ready to give way to 
tears. 

Cry? Certainly not! Edmee knew what 
tears cost. More than all, she knew that they 
must be hidden, and accustomed as she was to 
hide none of her actions, the constraint appeared 
to her humiliating. She passed her slender hand 
across her pretty eyes and rose. The heat of the 
day had doubtless taxed her strength too severely. 
Why should she feel like crying, otherwise? 

The next day Juliette arrived, a little less rat’ 
tle-pated than was usual with her. 

“What ails you?” Fontenoy asked, surprised 
to see her so quiet during dinner. 

“I am resting, uncle,” she gravely replied. 
“You never saw a pin- wheel that went on revolv- 
ing and spitting fire forever, did you? You 
won’t reproach me if I am a little silent; you 
are too kind to do that.” 

“You are not ill, I hope?” he inquired, with 
real solicitude. 


140 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


She laughed merrily, my dear uncle; 

there is no cause for alarm on that score. You 
know, I have been at Yichy, and the effect of 
the Vichy water is depressing, as every one is 
aware.” 

‘‘But you did not drink it?” said Fontenoy. 

“There is my uncle ‘up a tree!’ Come down, 
uncle, if you please. No, I did not drink it; if I 
had it would have been a genuine case of maras- 
mus. But just looking at the others drink was 
sufficient to produce that effect on me.” 

When the dinner was over she asked her uncle 
to show her the flovv^er garden, and when she 
had plied him with a thousand preposterous ques- 
tions about the flovrers, of which he knew as lit- 
tle as she did, explained to him the reason of her 
melancholy. 

“I did not wish to speak of it before Aunt Ed- 
mee,” she said, “who is none too cheerful as it 
is, but my poor mamma is not at all well. ’ ’ 

“It is the effect of taking the water, ’ ’ gently 
intimated M. Fontenoy, who was inclined to be 
optimistic where his neighbors’ ailments were 
concerned. 

“I don’t like to contradict you, uncle, and I’m 
sorry to dispel your illusion, but the water hasn’t 
everything to do with it. I know that it makes 
most people cross and ill-natured. If mamma 
were only cross, as she always used to be, it 
would take such a great load off my mind! But 
she hardly ever scolds any one now, and her 
manner is so gentle and resigned that it makes 
my heart bleed. ’ ’ 


AN OLD "folks’ WOOING. 


141 


Fontenoy knew not what answer to make. He 
laid his hand on his niece’s head and smoothed 
her hair affectionately, which had the effect of 
inducing the girl to go on with increased confi- 
dence. 

“Well, as I was going to say, when we re- 
turned to the Clocher — what in the world makes 
her so fond of that old Clocher is one of the mys- 
teries that I despair of ever solving ! A place 
where there is not a green thing to be seen, no 
water, nothing ! A country house in the Beauce, 
with twenty leagues of wheat-fields around it on 
every side, and one solitary cypress shading the 
house, on the north side! You have never been 
there, you have never seen the Clocher, have 
you, uncle?” 

“I must confess I have not.” 

“Well, then, don’t go there; you would die 
of melancholy before you had been there a week. 
I believe it’s nothing in the world but that that 
has soured mamma’s temper so. When we want 
to breathe the fresh air we go and sit on the 
shady side of the house, and on Sundays — but on 
Sundays only, so as not to wear it out — the serv- 
ants are allowed to sit in the shadow of the bell- 
tower; for there is a bell-tower on top of the 
pigeon-house — a sort of round tower, you know. 
But there are no pigeons there now, on account 
of the grain ; they devour too much of it, the 
poor pigeons! You can see for yourself that no 
one can live there and preserve his amiability ; 
it’s entirely out of the question.” 

‘ ‘ I would recommend you to abuse the Beauce, ’ ’ 


142 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


said Fontenoy, way of changing the subject, 
for the conversation was becoming lugubrious. 
“Would you be the rich heiress that you are if 
your property were situated in the Landes?” 

‘ ‘ But I never said that it was cheerful among 
the Landes, uncle. I like it much better here, I 
assure you.” 

She turned and cast a look of satisfaction on 
the great trees that lined the banks of the Non- 
nette. Behind the house they could hear the 
sound of the paddle wielded by a belated servant 
girl, as with hurried blows she pounded the linen 
exposed upon a rock. The air was heavy with 
the perfume of the roses which still lingered on 
the overloaded bushes, and of the purple clusters 
of the wisteria, now blooming for the second 
time. 

“It smells good here,” she said; “at home it 
smells of the manure -pile ; but then our property 
brings us in something, while yours, uncle, is 
only a source of expense.” 

“Why did you not bring your mother with 
you?” Fontenoy asked, in a half-hearted way. 
He had always looked forward to his sister-in- 
law’s visits with apprehension. Mme. Chassa- 
gny, even in her most cheerful moments, had 
never failed to chill and depress him like a No- 
vember fog. 

“Oh, uncle! To help get me a husband? You 
are not in earnest?” 

Juliette spoke so seriously that her uncle al- 
lowed what seemed like a strange remark to pass 
unnoticed. Besides, the presence of a woman 


AN OLD FOLKS^ WOOING. 


143 


stern and morose, as was Mme. Chassagny, 
would evidently be out of place among the pretty 
frivolities of the courtship as planned by Edmee. 

“It couldn’t be,” the young girl continued. 
“But poor mamma is left alone with no one to 
keep her company, down there in her Clocher, 
and it makes me feel very bad. I offered to re- 
main with her, but she said, ‘hTo; go and enjoy 
yourself.’ As if I could enjoy myself when 
things are in such a state !” 

“We’ll try to find something to amuse you,” 
said Fontenoy, consolingly. “There is company 
over at Comte Forest’s; my cousin, Fabien, is 
expected soon.” 

With a charming little movement of the shoul- 
ders, Juliette gave him to understand that Fa- 
bien was indifferent to her. 

“And then our neighbors, those excellent old 
people, the Fremonts, always have something 
going on in their house.” 

“What! are the Fremonts neighbors of yours? 

! Oh, that is awfully jolly ! They are the queerest 
people you ever saw.” 

I Fontenoy, a trifle surprised, gave his niece an 
, interrogative look. 

j “It is exactly as I tell you,” she declared, em- 
phasizing her words with a succession of vehe- 
1 ment little nods. “In the first place, there are 
the two girls, Enguerrande and Maguelonne; 
if there had been a third, I suppose they would 

K have christened her Broceliande. And then 
there is a moat surrounding the house, and a 
drawbridge and portcullis, only they can’t raise 


144 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


it because it is so rusty, and as it is made of 
cast-iron they don’t dare to touch it for fear of 
breaking something about the machinery. And 
there are frogs in the moat, exactly like an old 
feudal castle ; they caught them and put them 
in there to hear them croak ; and Enguerrancle 
has a man to beat the water at night time so the 
noise shan’t keep her awake. But the old gar- 
dener is cute ; he didn’t like the idea of sitting up 
o’ nights, so he rigged up an arrangement — a 
sort of automatic water- splasher, like the dasher 
of a churn, you know, and connected it with a 
windmill that goes round when there is any wind, 
and then he goes home and goes to bed.” 

“Wlio was it told you all those wonderful 
things?” asked Fontenoy, whose breath was al- 
most taken away by such an overwhelming tor- 
rent of information on matters of which he was 
entirely ignorant, albeit he had been on visiting 
terms with the family for upward of twenty 
years. , 

‘‘Little Descrosses. He was there last year, 
and you can count to a certainty on seeing 
him there again this year. If you dop’t be- 
lieve me, just ask him if what I told you isn’t 
true.” 

The idea that little Descrosses was coming 
into their neighborhood v^as not particularly 
pleasing to Fontenoy, on Malvois’ account; he 
did not press the subject further. 

‘ ‘ Oh, weU, if the old Fremonts are living here, 
we shan’t find it tiresome,” Juliette continued, 
in a tone as if that question was settled finally; 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


145 


then, turning to Fontenoy, she added: “But, in 
that case, why does my aunt look so down in 'the 
mouth?” 

“We have not seen much of our neighbors, 
thus far,” Gilbert explained. “Do you really 
think that your aunt looks — ” 

“I couldn’t tell you exactly how she looks,” 
the young girl replied; “but she certainly does 
not look happy. Haven’t you noticed it?” 

“It is probably the heat,” Edmee’s husband 
disingenuously rejoined; “and then we’ve been 
working hard. To-morrow we’ll show you what 
we have accomplished, and afterward we’ll go 
and pay the Fremonts a visit. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I shall like that!” Juliette exclaimed. 
The next day found her with a violent head- 
ache ; it was nothing more than the effect of her 
journey in the extreme heat ; but after some hours 
of languid sauntering and looking for cool spots, 
the young girl retired to her room and lay down 
on her bed, where it seemed to her that a good 
sleep, if she could obtain it, would do her more 
good than anything. Fontenoy proposed to his 
wife that they should no longer defer their long- 
promised visit to their neighbors, and as the dis- 
tance between the two houses was but little more 
than half a mile of thickly-shaded road along the 
river-bank, they started forth together, about 
three o’clock in the afternoon. 

The narrowness of the path did not permit of 
their walking abreast. Edmee took the lead, fol- 
lowed at a few steps’ distance by her preoccupied 
spouse. When they struck into the road again. 


146 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


he ranged up alongside her and addressed her 
one or two'unimportant remarks, and it was in 
this eminently conjugal array that they presented 
themselves before the chateau of their worthy 
neighbors. 

The structure was of brick and stucco, and not- 
withstanding its feudal appearance, resembled a 
fortress about as closely as the lions of the Insti- 
tute resemble the fierce denizens of the desert. 
Of scant proportions, moreover, and built in the 
worst days of the romantic craze, it had stood 
for twenty years after its owner’s death without 
finding a purchaser, until the moment when 
Mme. Fremont, chancing to set eyes on it, had 
declared that some good genie must have reared 
it for her especial behoof. 

Having bought the property, therefore, she 
took up her quarters in it with her family, and 
the visitors that year by year came there in 
droves with the advent of fine weather. The 
house was as inconvenient and ill-arranged as 
could be conceived. One instance was that the 
angular furniture of the present day could by no 
possibility be made to fit the circular rooms of 
the towers. Little Descrosses asserted that he 
could never sleep in those apartments until he 
had first curled himself up in a ball, dog-fashion; 
but it was never ki.own that this consideration 
deterred him from accepting the frequent invi- 
tations with which he was favored. 

For the time being the frogs were slumbering 
in the moat, and all the garrison of the fortress 
were gathered on the lawn in the shade of the 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


147 


magnificent old oaks, devoting themselves to 
croquet. M. Fremont wielded his mallet as vig- 
orously as the youngest of them, while his wife 
kept tally of the strokes and acted as referee and 
judge in the frequent quarrels; for, whether or 
not the fact is to be attributed to its English ori- 
gin, croquet does not humanize men’s manners, 
it rather tends to brutalize them; there is no 
pastime going that is so prolific of squabbling 
and clapper-clawing. There are some games — 
chess, for instance — ^that engender a courteous 
habit; croquet is essentially quarrelsome. 

V/hen Edmee had exchanged the usual civili- 
ties with the excellent old couple, and turned to 
survey the company, the very first person her 
eyes lighted on was Mme. Verseley. There was 
nothing of the water-sprite about the lady to- 
day ; but her gown, of some thin yellowish ma- 
terial, fantastically striped with black, gave her 
a serpentine appearance that harmonized to per- 
fection with her small flat head and glittering 
eyes. The impression came to her so suddenly, 
and was at the same time so disagreeable, that 
Mme. Fontenoy was unable to control a slight 
instinctive movement of avoidance, not so slight, 
perhaps, however, as to pass unnoticed by Mme. 
Verseley. Enguerrande and Maguelonne were 
a pair of rather showy, bustling girls. The 
former, thirty-five years old, had abandoned all 
hopes of marriage, while the latter, five or six 
years her sister’s junior, was still on the warpath, 
and determined to leave no stone unturned to 
win a husband. The. game had just come to an 


148 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


end, and they were about to begin a new one ; 
for there were seasons when some particular 
sport seized on the chateau and raged with the 
virulence of an epidemic. Edmee, on being so- 
licited to join it, replied that the heat was too 
great, and she preferred to be a spectator. Fon- 
tenoy had made a similar answer, and was look- 
ing for a vacant chair, when Mme. Verseley 
stepped forward and tendered him a mallet. 

Her eyes half-closed, her thin lips retracted in 
a smile ahnost of irony, there was something 
about her provoking as an insult, and perverted 
as an indecent book. Her attitude seemed to ex- 
press: ‘H know that you will refuse, but if you 
do I shall think you are a sorry specimen of a 
gentleman. ’ ’ 

Fontenoy’s face had been very pale. Sud- 
denly the blood rushed to his neck and ears. 
Edmee, who had been watching him, was fright- 
ened by the sudden change, and made a move- 
ment as if to go to him, but he had taken the 
mallet in his hand and was bowing before his 
quondam friend. Fate — was it fate? or was it 
design? — gave him Mme. Verseley for an adver- 
sary, and the game began. 

It lagged at first, but after a few random, 
tentative strokes, it became more interesting. 
Every one played well, and Fontenoy was cele- 
brated for his proficiency. Mme. Verseley was 
not a skillful player, but being supple and quick- 
witted, she sometimes was successful where her 
partners failed. The others gradually fell out 
and left the decision of the event in their hands. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


149 


They plied their mallets with a concentrated 
intensity that seemed to have destroyed their 
faculty of speech. Fontenoy’s strokes, delivered 
with precision and assurance, were driving his 
own and his allies’ balls toward the goal. Hers 
rang out distinct and nervous as a slap on the 
face, and not even the risk of spoiling her own 
chances was sufficient to restrain her when she 
saw an opportunity of doing her opponent an 
ill-turn. The other players, reduced to the tame 
and spiritless function of spectators, neverthe- 
less watched with intense interest to see what 
the final result would be. Edmee followed the 
game with an emotion for which she herself was 
unable to account. Seeing her husband on the 
point of making a wrong play, she suffered a 
low cry of warning to escape her, but it was too 
late. Fontenoy stopped short, mallet in hand, 
disgusted to have endangered by an inexplica- 
ble blunder, the almost assured success of his 
party. 

Mme. Verseley, with fixed gaze and lips 
tightly compressed, her mind and body sub- 
jected to an extraordinary tension, kept grad- 
ually advancing with gentle, even strokes, al- 
v/ays nearing the goal. She stopped and raised 
her head. 

“That is your ball, is it not, M. Fontenoy?” 
she asked in her distinct, slightly metallic voice. 

He bowed in silent assent. 

With a sharp blow that found an echo in 
Edmee’s heart, she sent her adversary’s ball 
rolling away into the shrubbery, so far, that 


150 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


some one left the group to run after it and save 
it from falling into the ditch. Then, with an 
ill-natured air of triumph, Mme. Verseley com- 
pleted her victory, amid the plaudits of her 
side. 

‘‘Admirably played, my dear,” Mme. Fre- 
mont said to her, “only it was hardly necessary 
to drive that poor ball so far!” 

Fontenoy came up to her, very pale and with 
parted lips. 

“You owe me a revenge, madame,” he said 
to the young woman. 

She looked him in the eyes, her compressed 
lips relaxed in a bewitching smile, and she be- 
came once more a woman, as she so well knew 
how to be. 

“If you desire it!” said she, with voluptuous 
nonchalance, resting the weight of her slight 
form on her mallet until the elastic stick bent. 

“Take your places!” cried Maguelonne, as 
she ran to the goal. 

Edmee rose and crossed over to where her 
husband stood. 

“I think I shall go home,” said she, not ven- 
turing to look him in the face, so great was her 
dread of reading what was in his eyes or per- 
mitting him to read what was in hers. “I am 
afraid Juliette may need me.” 

“Very well,” he replied, scarcely conscious of 
what she said to him, and rejoined his party. 
Disregarding the entreaties of her hosts and the 
offer of an escort, Edmee left the assemblage. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


151 


When about to make her exit from the park, she 
turned and looked around. 

Off in the distance, under the umbrageous 
oaks, the conflict had been resumed. She could 
distinguish her husband’s gray jacket and the 
snaky gown of his antagonist. 

She closed the gate behind her and was on the 
road, alone. 

Mechanically she directed her steps toward 
the path, crossing, in order to reach it, a broad 
sunlit space where the ground seemed to scorch 
her feet. She felt the need of shade, of silence, 
of the retirement of the friendly wood, to con- 
ceal her disappointment. She felt herself van- 
quished. Something had failed her in her life, 
something that she had cherished without know- 
ing it. What was it? A sudden illumination 
flashed in upon her mind : it was her husband’s 
health, that had already been in peril once, and 
that this encounter would endanger afresh. She 
felt it, she was sure of it. It was that woman 
who had disturbed Fontenoy’s tranquillity to 
such an extent as to menace his existence. 
The sister of charity that was latent in Edmee 
rose in revolt. It was that righteous indigna- 
tion, that unselfish anger, that set her entire 
being vibrating and quivering with apprehen- 
sion. But whence that sensation of melancholy 
and discouragement? 

Slowly, with lingering steps and hands hang- 
ing idly by her sides, she pursued her way under 
the great trees, unconsciously soothed and re- 
freshed by their grateful shade, by the faint 


152 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


marmur of the little stream rippling over its 
pebbly bed, by the lazy oscillation of the aquatic 
growths in spots where the water was deeper 
and more still. Her resentful feelings disap- 
peared* in some mysterious way, leaving her 
with only her melancholy and her fears. She 
would have sat down on the mossy bank to 
meditate had she dared, but that would not be 
decorous. She would wait until she had re- 
gained the privacy of her own grounds. She 
could already see the brown gate, half-hid among 
the willows, and she quickened her steps. 

Outlined against the verdant background of 
the osiers, the form of a fisherman became 
visibile. Slowly and with methodical circum- 
spection he reeled in his line and detached the 
hooks. Edmee’s course would lead her behind 
and quite near him; but who ever pays atten- 
tion to a peaceful angler? Still, she felt glad 
that she had not stopped as she had thought 
of doing. A closer view showed her that the 
fisher was not a countryman. His suit of light 
cloth was the perfection of elegance, the hat 
that concealed his features had never seen the 
interior of a country store. When he had dis- 
posed of the other portions of his tackle he 
dexterously unjointed his rod and bestowed it 
in its case, then turned to Mine. Fontenoy, who 
by that time was quite near to him. It was 
D’Argilesse. 

“How do you do, dearmadame?” he said, with 
perfect coolness. “Are you surprised to see me 
here? You were not aware that I am a sinful 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


153 


fisherman^ — no pun intended, I assure you. 
There is not a stream within fifty miles of Paris 
whose holes I have not whipped with varying 
luck. But don’t be hard on me. All my an- 
gling is done for the glory of it, N'o living soul, 
not even myself, has ever tasted the victims of 
my rod. I could not be so cruel — there, see!” 

With a melodramatic gesture he emptied into 
the stream an elaborately contrived basket that 
contained two or three innocent little specimens 
of the finny tribe. Edmee looked at him in a 
dazed way, unable to articulate in her bewilder- 
ment. It was for her sake he was there, of that 
she felt absolutely certain. What was she to 
do? 

‘‘I wrote Fontenoy that I intended coming 
down to visit this part of the world. Your 
astonishment shows me that he can’t have re- 
ceived my letter. I am quartered in the village 
with some worthy people, acquaintances of mine. 
I have been here before, many’s the time. Are 
you homeward bound?” 

am going home,” said Edmee. 

D’Argilesse’s eyes appeared to be seeking to 
read what was in hers. He looked neither 
wicked nor dangerous in his semi-bucolical 
equipment; and she felt so sad, so lonely — 

“The people about here tell me that you have 
bought the old mill? I can remember the time 


* The words peclieur and pecheur in French have the 
same pronunciation. The former means a sinner, the 
latter a fisherman. — T r. 


154 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


when it was a mill, even I, who stand here talk- 
ing to you! But it seems you have transformed 
it into a palace. And so Fontenoy allows you 
to wander unattended about these lonely roads ! 
Isn’t he afraid that some one will steal you?” 

He laughed lightly, so lightly that Edmee 
also smiled. The terror that D’Argilesse had 
caused her at Paris vanished in the dim light 
of the stream, among the shadows of the ver- 
dure, in presence of that rustic costume. A man 
who presents himself with a fishing-rod in his 
hand and under a straw hat is no longer dan- 
gerous, when one has always been accustomed 
to see him in evening dress by the light of the 
chandeliers ; he is not the same man — and 
D’Argilesse did not say the same things, either. 

A feeling of irresolution crept over Edmee. 
Her knees seemed to be weakening under her. 
She felt like sinking down among the herbage 
that smelled so good, and saying to that man 
who loved her — for he loved, but not in the 
same way as at Paris — ‘H am so lonely, so 
unhappy ! My husband causes me such anxiety 
and sorrow!” It would have been stupid, ridic- 
ulous, and it would have done her good — yes — 
but after? what answer would he make? 

Edmee’s will reasserted itself, with a brusk 
movement that stiffened all her being, mental 
and physical. 

‘‘My husband is over at M. Fremont’s,” she 
said, “deeply interested in a great game of 
croquet that is going on there. If you choose 
to go and meet him, you will be sure to find him, 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


155 


in about an hour from now, either on the path 
or on the road.’’ 

She passed in front of him, saluting him with 
a nod of the head, and entered the park. The 
sound of the latch falling back into its hasp 
behind her seemed to her an assurance of safety. 
Her strength suddenly failed her. She advanced 
a couple of steps, then stopped and supported 
herself against a tree. 

Why should she refuse that which came to her 
unsought? She had not gone forth to meet it! 
He who had so long abandoned her to herself, 
paying her no more heed than he would have 
bestowed on a favorite dog; would not he be 
the real guilty one if she should lose her head? 
— the head alone, for the heart was in no 
danger. 

“This is abominable!” she suddenly said to 
herself. “Such thoughts disgrace me.” 

Incapable of thought, her brain exhausted by 
so many conflicting impressions, she was about 
to resume her course, when the park gate was 
opened, very gently, with infinite precaution, 
but not without creaking on its hinges; for it 
was the gate of honest people and stood in no 
need of oiling, and D’Argilesse’s head was 
thrust through the opening. 

With the caution of a wild man of the woods 
he surveyed the winding path, the stream and 
the shrubbery, but neglected to turn his eyes on 
what was close at hand, and, moreover, the door, 
which he held almost tight closed, was between 
him and Mme. Fontenoy. She could see him. 


156 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


though, distinctly, and on that face, handsome 
still, though ravaged by passion, she read an ex- 
pression of diabolical wickedness, of brutal* con- 
cupiscence, such as she had never seen on human 
face before. 

All the blood in Edmee’s body retreated to 
her heart, then surged upward to her forehead. 
She felt herself insulted as never woman in her 
sphere of life was insulted among her equals. 
Did that man dare to enter her grounds to play 
the spy on her, and was that bestial expression 
the true index of the sentiment she inspired in 
him? She had heard tell that there were men 
who, after dining generously, made women the 
subjects of their unedifying conversation; but 
she had never troubled herself to inquire what 
might be the nature of that conversation. Now 
she all at once divined it, and shook with min- 
gled anger, shame and offended pride. If 
D’Argilesse had spoken to her at that moment 
she would, most likely, have struck him in the 
face, and felt for the remainder of her life an 
ineffaceable stain upon her hand. Fortunately, 
he did not see her, and withdrew his head with 
the same deliberate caution that he had dis- 
played in introducing it. The door closed on 
him with a little shriek of rusty iron. 

Edmee darted forward and pushed home the 
bolt with a strength she knew not was in her, 
then fled to the house as rapidly as she could 
run. She was in haste to hide herself; and, by 
washing her hands, her face and all her person 
to relieve them of the contamination of that 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


157 


look, which yet had not lighted on her, but 
only sought her. 

On entering the vestibule she was told that 
Juliette had not awakened and that the Comte 
Forest was awaiting her in the drawing-room. 
Was she never to have a moment to herself? 
Just as she was about to send in word asking 
him to excuse her for a little. Forest appeared in 
the doorway, wearing his usual pleasant smile. 

A single brief glance at Mme. Fontenoy 
sufficed to tell the old man that something 
had happened beyond the common. With his 
practical common sense he at once plunged into 
a conversation on unimportant topics, and led 
the way into the drawing-room, where they 
were out of sight and hearing of the servants. 
When she had seated herself, he came and stood 
before her and softly asked : 

“Is it anything in which I can help you?” 

She cast on him a despairing look, such a look 
as the fawn gives when hard pushed by the pack, 
hid her crimson face with her hands, and was 
mute. 

“My dear child,” Forest gravely said, “if 
you do not wish me to think the situation worse 
than it actually is, you must say something to 
reassure me.” 

Edmee looked up in his face, but her look was 
one of fearless confidence, and in her candid 
eyes he did not read what he had feared to 
read there. 

“I breathe again,” said he, forcing himself 
to smile; “but you frightened me badly. But 


158 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


that is past and gone. You can tell me all 
now. Come, what is the matter?” 

“The matter is,” said Edmee, regaining her 
self-command, “that the situation my husband 
places me in’ is intolerable ! At this very mo- 
ment he is over at the Fremonts’, playing cro- 
quet with Mine. Verseley.” 

She stopped short. 

“Is that all? I don’t see anything so very 
reprehensible in that,” said the philosopher. 

“Oh! no; of course not. But you know — for 
you know everything — that last winter he came 
near dying on her account, and now she is about 
to capture him again. She is taking possession 
of him now, she already has him in her clutches 
— she will be the death of him! ” 

“Hardly so bad as that!” Forest replied, in a 
cheerful tone. “We have time enough to come 
to his rescue.” 

“It is sport for her,” Edmee vehemently con- 
tinued. “She is a wicked, cold-blooded creat- 
ure.” 

“I grant you she is wicked. As to her being 
cold-blooded, I cannot say. I have an idea that 
she pretends to be. But be reasonable, my dear 
child. Because Fontenoy has played a game of 
croquet with this dangerous person, it doesn’t 
follow that he is hopelessly lost.” 

“Ah, if you could have seen her strike that 
ball! I felt as if the blow had fallen on my 
heart. I know that Gilbert cares precious little 
for me, and I, for my part — well, he is perfectly 
indifferent to me, I give you my word! Seven- 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


159 


teen years have afforded us time ia abundance 
to cease to love each other. But I bear his 
name, and I cannot bear to see him acting as 
he does before all the world and allowing that 
creature to make him her plaything. I hate 
her, I do!” 

Hatred was a sentiment of which Edmee 
knew so little that she was quite upset herself 
by the violence of her explosion. She wrung 
her pretty hands with a heart-broken air, then 
sat mute and motionless, with eyes downcast — 
prey to an emotion that she had never known 
before. 

“And is that all?” asked Forest. His intui- 
tion, acquired by much friendly converse with 
the sex, revealed to him the existence of another 
secret. 

“All! Is it not enough? But you are right; 
there is something more. My husband — for after 
all Gilbert Fontenoy is my husband! — cares for 
me so little, is so entirely regardless of my feel- 
ings and wishes, that he has made a bosom- 
friend of M. d’Argilesse — ” 

She checked herself again. No! she could 
not, she positively could not, tell a human be- 
ing of that which was her great humiliation, 
of that which was burning her like a brand of 
ignominy. 

“And D’Argilesse is paying you attentions?’’ 
said Forest, concluding her sentence for her. 
“There is nothing extraordinary in that; he 
is not the first man who has done so, Edmee. 
Why should you be shocked by attentions com- 


160 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


ing from him, which you regarded with indiffer- 
ence coming from other men?” 

“Because he presumed to speak!” cried the 
poor woman, driven to bay at last. “He has 
insulted me! He sees what others have never 
seen; for until now has my husband preserved 
the outward forms of decency ! He sees that I 
am a deserted wife, and am at every man’s 
mercy! He is here, yes, here, to-day! I saw 
him! he was watching to intercept me as I 
passed. And if I should tell my husband, what 
would happen?” 

“Fontenoy would say that you have been de- 
luding yourself with figments of your brain — or 
else he might kill this exemplary gentleman. 
It would be no great loss, I admit, but it would 
not be pleasant for the survivor. And if he did 
not kill him, it would be more unpleasant still 
for everybody concerned. Say nothing; it is 
not advisable, as a general rule, to mention 
these matters to one’s husband. I know that 
this advice is not in conformity with the pre- 
cepts of primitive Christianity, but it is sound.” 

“I have no desire to tell him,” Edmee re- 
plied, with more calmness. “You are right; 
he would probably laugh at me, in company 
with that detestable woman, may be — I wish 
she were dead and incapable of doing harm — ” 

“To Fontenoy?” 

“To him and others.” 

Edmee averted her face under the scrutinizing 
gaze of her old friend. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


161 


‘^You don’t love your husband any more?’* 
he asked, in a low, grave voice. 

“Certainly not! What manner of woman 
should I be to love a man who has no regard 
for me! And to think how I nursed him, how 
I burned his letters without a word, without a 
question — ” 

“His letters?” 

Edmee had gone too far to retreat. She 
briefly related the incident to Forest. 

“It was well done, my child; very well done, 
indeed,” he said, approvingly. “And you are 
quite certain that you don’t love Fontenoy?” 

“If it were not that I don’t want to appear 
destitute of Christian charity,” Edmee hotly 
answered, “I should say that I detest him!” 

“You believe that? How happens it, then, 
my dear girl, that you are jealous of him?” 

“I? Jealous?” 

Edmee would have wished to treat the matter 
as a joke; but the laughter died away upon her 
lips, and she rose from her seat, trembling and 
white as a sheet. 

“Yes, jealous, passionately jealous!” said 
Forest. “You may esteem yourself fortunate, 
my child, and favored above all; for, beautiful 
as you are, at this critical moment of your life, 
you are your own protector, and the protection 
is more effectual than any one will ever be able 
to afford you. You love that monster of in- 
gratitude, that neglectful, unfeeling husband. 
Nay, my poor child, don’t say you are ashamed 
of it. We have to love, whether we will or no. 


162 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


V/’e are so constituted. And what is more hon- 
orable, more natural, more holy than for a wife 
to love her husband?” 

“ — Who does not love his wife?” asked Ed- 
mee, with flashing eyes and cheeks aflame. 

‘‘Yes, even though he do not love her. Scru- 
tinize your very inmost thoughts and tell me 
this: Would you prefer to love another man 
who loves you?” 

“Oh! ” she exclaimed, indignantly. 

“There, you see that I am right! Now open 
your ears and receive an old anchorite’s words 
of wisdom. In the first place, go and put on 
your handsomest gown and all your finery, for 
my especial gratification, for I like to see ladies 
looking attractive and well-dressed. It is one 
of my foibles. Then, if you please, you may 
invite me to dinner, for that is what I came 
here for, and if the dinner is a good one it will 
be all the more acceptable. And lastly, don’t 
be surprised if you see your husband come 
home presently bringing D’Argilesse with him.” 

“Would he dare show his face here?” cried 
Edmee, threatening to become hysterical again. 

“He is here for no other object. Were you so 
very hard on him?” 

“I shut the park gate in his face,” Mme. Fon- 
tenoy confessed, not without embarrassment. 

“Ofiicially?” 

“Not exactly.” 

“Ofiiciously. In that case the matter can be 
smoothed over. Be very amiable, this evening 
and at all times.” 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


163 


‘‘Toward that man?” 

“Toward everybody; toward me, toward Fa- 
bien — by the way, he will be here next week — 
yes, toward D’Argilesse, if you can compass it. 
Don’t let that destroyer of feminine tranquillity 
see that you are afraid of him.” 

“Nor that I despise him?” 

“Why should you despise him? Because he 
has discovered that you are handsome? No, no 
scorn, no contempt, only indifference — a brilliant 
I indifference. That’s the attitude that you want 
to take toward him. You are not afraid of him 
now, I suppose, or of any other man?” 

1 Edmee answered him with a smile, accom- 
\ panied by a charming blush that made her look 
even prettier than she had done twenty years 
j before. As she passed him on her way up to 
her chamber he took her hand and on it im- 
printed a fatherly kiss. 

“I am going to be your lover now,” he said, 

: “until the others detect me. You have some- 
! thing of Celimene in you, haven’t you?” 

I “Not a bit!” she replied, with a charming 
expression of ingenuous doubt. 

“It is easily acquired; and besides, you have 
the most accomplished of instructors close at 
hand.” 

i| “Who may that be?” 

I “Juliette. You laugh? Laughing is becom- 
! ing to you. Laugh often!” 

As she vanished up the stairs she cast back on 
t| him the prettiest smile he had received in a long 
, while. 


164 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


XIV. 

About seven o’clock, as Forest had predicted, 
Fontenoy returned, in company with D’ Argilesse. 
The latter had shed his rustic habiliments and 
manifested no evidence of having ever whipped 
a pool. As if this were the first time he had 
seen her since her arrival from Paris, he made 
a low bow before Edmee and asked her pardon 
for his unceremonious manner of presenting 
himself. 

‘‘Fontenoy wouldn’t hear to my objections,” 
he said; “that is why I offer my humble ex- 
cuses, madame, for appearing here without 
your permission. I encountered him on the 
road—” 

“As I told you you would do,” Edmee inter- 
rupted, rather haughtily, raising her head. 

“Then you have seen each other before to- 
day?” Fontenoy inquired with surprise. 

“On the banks of the Nonnette, where M. 
d’ Argilesse was fishing,” she replied. 

Gilbert would probably have manifested his 
astonishment that his friend had not informed 
him of the fact had not his attention been 
diverted to a subject of, to him, greater im- 
portance. 

“Then it was you who shut that gate?” said 
he, not very pleasantly. “I broke my finger- 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


165 


nails just now trying to get in. We had to 
tramp through the dust of the road away round 
to the main entrance. It was excessively an- 
noying.” 

D’Argilesse kept his half-closed eyes bent on 
Edmee. She felt that she could not endure it 
much longer and must break out; but Forest 
came to her rescue. 

‘‘I am the guilty one,” said he, ‘‘and I ask 
your pardon twice over, Fontenoy; first, for 
having caused you an unpleasant tramp, and 
secondly, for having usurped a privilege of 
ownership which I acknowledge to be unpar- 
donable. But all I can say is that it’s an old 
man’s whim. AtCerisy the gates used to stand 
open in all trust and confidence, but I noticed 
that my finest peaches vanished from off the 
espaliers in broad daylight. There are poachers 
who are utterly devoid of scruples — in fact, 
poachers generally are apt to be unscrupulous. 
It was at that time that I contracted the rep- 
rehensible habit of shutting gates — not mine 
alone, but other peoples’ also. Believe me, on 
this occasion I am unable to express my re- 
gret.” 

He rattled off his little speech with perfect 
ease, so that D’Argilesse, although he would 
have given considerable to know, could not say 
whether or not he spoke the truth. It was not 
a cheerful thought to him that possibly Forest 
had witnessed his attempt ; but every culprit has 
a right to plead not guilty, and, moreover, of 
what could he be accused? And then, too, if 


166 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


the worst came to the worst, men don’t eat one 
another alive. 

“I am sorry I mentioned the matter, if it was 
you,” Fontenoy graciously remarked. 

“I will have an extra key made,” Edmee 
promptly said. “The comte is right. It won’t 
do to allow a gate so remote from the house to 
remain unlocked. We should have no privacy 
at all.” 

Juliette made her appearance at this juncture, 
looking rather pale, but as wide awake as usual 
and in the best of spirits. The company took 
their places at table, and the incident appeared 
to be forgotten. 

The next morning Edmee came downstairs 
bright and early. The sun had been up some 
time, however, and his rays, striking through 
the foliage, touched the tips of the herbage 
under the alder-bushes and imparted to them 
tints of vivid gold. 

Mine. Fontenoy had seen but little of the 
country during her earlier years, and she was 
not imbued with that love of Nature which, 
with some, is a veritable passion, as strong 
and tender as the most profound of our affec- 
tions; but she had an artistic perception of the 
beautiful. The sentiment that brought her out 
of doors that morning, however, was deeper than 
that which she experienced habitually. 

After the events of the previous evening — as 
stupid and wearisome as the rehearsal of a play 
in which the actors have not mastered their 
parts and everything drags lamentably— she had 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


167 


gone to bed, completely fagged out, utterly un- 
able to reflect and analyze the situation. In the 
morning, soon as the birds began to twitter in 
their nests, she had’ awaked, clear of head and 
strong of body, with the impression that there 
had been a change, that something had hap- 
pened which was to alter the whole course of 
her existence ; something blithe and joy-inspir- 
ing, which impelled her to seek the sunshine 
and the blue sky. She experienced an impe- 
rious need to be alone in the open air, and to 
walk long and rapidly, by that means to in- 
crease her renovated vitality. 

The sun was so hot, even at that early hour, 
that she sought the banks of the stream and the 
grateful shade of the tall poplars, whose leaves 
kept up an incessant murmuring above her head, 
as if they were whispering pleasant secrets to 
one another. She vainly questioned herself at 
flrst to ascertain what could be the reason of her 
light-heartedness. The rapidity of her move- 
ment, which afforded her a pleasure hitherto 
unknown to her, acted as an impediment to 
consecutive thought; but as she imperceptibly 
checked her speed, her ideas became more tran- 
quil and orderly. 

Truly something had risen in her life: a new 
star, that she had had a dim consciousness of, 
perhaps, but had never paused to contemplate. 
She loved her husband. 

The sudden sensation of warmth that fllled 
her heart had told her that Forest spoke the 
truth, and the power of love is such that, not- 


168 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


withstanding the sorrows that the accession of 
this tyrant threatened, she was happy, so happy 
as to feel herself transfigured. 

She loved her husband, and her husband did 
not love her. She was therefore to know the 
torments of jealousy, the pangs of despised love, 
that cruel craving for affection that nothing can 
assuage. It would be hard, very hard, and her 
suffering would be terrible. Be it so — but she 
would have lived! 

Gilbert did not love her — that was true; but 
he had loved her — a little, at all events — in days 
gone by. Not with that exclusive affection which 
she now felt for him, but with a love which, if 
superficial, was none the less young and ardent. 
Well — for the heart of man is so constituted 
that, lacking realities, it can rest content with 
dreams and memories — she would gather up the 
remnants of her former happiness, and from the 
crumbs of that meal make for herself a new 
feast. And then old age was close at hand. 
Only a few years more — years of suffering and 
self-immolation, but few in number — and Gil- 
bert, no longer young, renouncing pleasures 
that had forsaken him, would find it necessary 
to lead a tranquil, domestic life under the watch- 
ful care of a faithful attendant. It was then 
that his wife, his early, his constant friend, 
henceforth forever to be nothing more than 
friend — but incomparable and unrivaled in 
that more humble sphere — would create for j 
him a soft warm nest of affection and surround » 
with a balmy atmosphere of happiness that old, 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


169 


fickle heart, content for the future to remain by 
the domestic hearth in a condition of moral well- 
being that no one save she could have afforded 
him. 

“Oh, my Gilbert!” Edmee refiected; “what 
promise of a happy future old age has in store 
for us, when you shall have quieted down and 
I am no longer distracted by my foolish jeal- 
ousy! ” 

And all at once this great truth dawned on 
Edmee; that youth is but a period of proba- 
tion; that our years^of strength and beauty are 
a preparation for those which come after them; 
and that, if we have led an upright life, when 
we reach the age of fifty a little happiness more 
or less in the past is a matter of trifling mo- 
ment, provided our aspirations have been up- 
ward toward the rugged heights of virtue. 
On reaching that culminating point of exist- 
ence our course lies onward across a level 
plain. The plain is as we ourselves have 
made it, either beset with stones and briers 
and bristling with difficulties, until the final 
plunge into the yawning gulf, or pleasant to 
the feet and carpeted with roses and violets, 
descending by an imperceptible slope to the 
Elysian Fields. 

The mondaine^ now that she was restored to 
woman’s natural sphere, thirsted for a life of 
abnegation, of sacrifice, almost of physical pain; 
and she no longer viewed with apprehension the 
difficulties that lay before her. Even D’Argi- 
lesse lost his terrors and retreated into the 


170 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


shadowy distance. Who could be a more ef- 
fectual protector to her now than she herself? 
She dismissed from her mind the vexatious in- 
cident of the day before and her momentary 
weakness. Had she not been sufficiently pun- 
ished by the horror she immediately felt? She 
was above such things, far above and beyond 
them, now! 

When she came to the park gate she stopped 
and smiled at the thought which rose to her 
mind. It was a good and faithful gate, and 
had done its duty well. She tried to push back 
the bolt, but her efforts were unavailing. Anger 
had pushed it home; to draw it again would re- 
quire more strength than lay in that small hand. 
Edmee returned to the house to give directions 
to summon a locksmith. 

By this time the sun was high in the heav- 
ens. On her homeward way she met her 
husband. 

Gilbert had not enjoyed so good a night’s rest 
as his wife. As she had foreseen, Mme. Verse- 
ley had asserted her influence over him again. 
It was in vain that he reasoned with himself; 
instinct impelled him toward the woman. He 
believed that he was strong enough not to be- 
come her slave, but knew he was weak enough 
to suffer deeply. What evil star had brought 
her there and set her down in the house of those 
worthy neighbors, who could not know her for 
what she was, and would, if she so desired, af- 
ford her every imaginable facility for perpetrat- 
ing her nefarious designs? He had a qualm 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 171 

of disgust at the thought that — if their re- 
lations had been what they once were — she 
would have taken advantage of her situation 
to appoint interviews with him. Then a re- 
flection occurred to him which revealed a cer- 
tain degree of perspicacity. Mme. Yerseley 
was not there for him. For whom then was 
she there? For as for imagining that she 
was visiting the Fremonts to afford them 
pleasure — to play croquet, or to benefit by the 
country air — the case was not a supposable 
one. 

He promised himself to keep an eye on her. 
In his present frame of mind to be able to visit 
his scorn on that woman — he knew her, but not 
as well as he should have known her by that 
time, it seems — and to assure himself that an- 
other man would soon be in the imbecile con- 
dition that he himself was in, would be an 
undeniable comfort. 

Meditations like these were not calculated to 
impart a joyous expression to his countenance, 
and when he encountered his wife on the path 
that skirted the brink of the little stream, his 
face wore a very glum expression. Edmee had 
come to know him so thoroughly that she could 
read his thoughts in his looks as readily as one 
reads a sign. She stopped the melancholy prom- 
enader, moved thereto by a sentiment of pity and 
gentle irony. 

“You are late in coming out for your walk, 
my friend,” she said to him. “An hour ago it 
was very pleasant here, but I can show you a 


172 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


retreat where the heat has not penetrated yet. 
Come.” 

She took the lead and conducted him to a sort 
of grotto near the boundary wall. The great 
overhanging trees with their dense foliage, as- 
sisted by a musical little spring whose waters 
tumbled into a marble basin, diffused a most 
agreeable coolness. Two bamboo easy-chairs 
afforded a resting-place less frigid to the touch 
than the circular bench of granite — dear to our 
good ancestors, who, I fancy, built such things 
for ornament rather than for use. 

‘‘You will find it a comfortable place to medi- 
tate in, and also to smoke, if you should happen 
to feel like it,” said Edmee; “but as it is my 
own private snuggery, t will request you not to 
bring any one else here. That’s all I ask of 
you.” 

“Are you going to leave me?” asked Gilbert, 
observing that she had turned to go. 

She stopped. “I don’t want to disturb your 
meditations,” she said with covert raillery. 

He looked at her, and was surprised to dis- 
cover that she was so pretty, so gentle too, with 
her handsome golden-brown eyes that shone with 
a purposely softened fiame. In her light morn- 
ing gown of some diaphanous pink and white 
material, with a touch of lace and ribbon here 
and there to set it off, she appeared restful alike 
to eye and heart, a gracious, wholesome spec- 
tacle, fair to look upon. 

“Disturb me?” he said. “What an idea! 
Stay where you are.” 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


173 


She came slowly back and seated herself on 
the other chair. For a moment that seemed 
rather long to them, they sat without speaking 
in the delicious coolness, surrounded on every 
side by the dense verdure, imprisoned, so to 
speak, save for a single vista of the river, with 
the gentle murmur of the spring escaping from 
the confinement of the basin. 

“It is pleasant here,” said Fontenoy, yielding 
himself up to the charm of the time and place. 
“We did well to buy this property. Are you 
satisfied with it, Edmee?” 

“Ever so much,” she answered in a low 
voice. 

If he could but have known all that was con- 
tained in those three words, the change that the 
walls of the old mill had witnessed within the 
last few hours, the renewal of life and gladness 
in her ! He would have been greatly surprised, 
perhaps ashamed, too, and angry with himself. 
It was not because he was incapable of it that 
he had failed to enter into her feelings and un- 
derstand them. His thoughts had never turned 
in that direction. He looked at her again, and 
intuitively perceived that a metamorphosis had 
occurred in the woman who had been his wife, 
who was now only a member of his household. 

“You are charming this morning,” said he. 
“The country agrees with you.” 

She looked up in his face, and suddenly a 
feeling of dread passed over her, causing her to 
shiver as if a breath of cold air had touched her. 
Could it be that — repulsed by Mme. Yerseley — 


174 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


he was going to conceive a transitory caprice for 
her in the absence of something better ! Truly, 
that would be an abominable thing! The great 
love that had so recently risen in her life could 
not be subjected to a sorer, a more humiliat- 
ing trial. And on the other hand again, why 
should she wound the feelings of one who was 
paying her a friendly compliment? She re- 
membered Comte Forest’s advice to model her- 
self on Celimene and summoned up her strength. 

‘‘One does one’s best,” she said, without 
looking at him. 

A charming smile illuminated her countenance 
for an instant and vanished. Her husband was 
wonderstruck at the fleeting apparition. Twenty 
years of life in common necessarily result in a 
certain measure of brother and sisterly famili- 
arity; even when the pair do not look at each 
other they can’t help seeing each other every 
day, and sometimes they rub shoulders. Gil- 
bert captured one of the fluttering ribbons that 
a stray puff of wind brought within his grasp. 

“Your best is very agreeable,” he said. “It 
seems to me that Forest is making love to 
you?” 

“Why, of course he is!” she replied. 

“He is a very sensible man. One of these 
days I think I shall follow his example.” 

“Oh, no! not you!” Edmee exclaimed, rising. 
She tempered with a smile the apparent rudeness 
of her speech. “I am going to see if Juliette is 
awake,” she said. 

She left the grotto, abandoning Gilbert to his 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


175 


reflections, which were not long in reverting to 
Mme. Yerseley and his own trials and tribula- 
tions. 

There were high jinks constantly under way 
at the feudal castle of the Fremonts. Follow- 
ing the teachings of several illustrious philoso- 
phers, Enguerrande and Maguelonne regarded 
life in the light of a round of duties which it 
is permitted no one to shirk. But then those 
duties consisted in industrious and unintermit- 
ting application to the exercise of various games 
and pastimes, whos6 paramount importance no 
one might safely venture to impugn who was 
invited to take part in them. D’Argilesse, 
having been presented to the family by Fon- 
tenoy at his own request, had immediately 
become an indispensable wheel in the ma- 
chinery. 

Under his easy-going manner he possessed a 
power of endurance almost as great as that of 
the Fremont girls. From morning till night he 
could be seen, with equal indifference and ab- 
sence of effort, alternately playing billiards and 
tennis, fencing, or driving a four-in-hand, con- 
stantly employing a wrist whose sinewy strength 
no one would have predicted from looking at his 
irreproachable white hands. 

Fontenoy was surprised. He had never sus- 
pected that his new friend was a man of so 
many and so radically different accomplish- 
ments, and he suddenly became aware that 
what he knew of him was very little. A cer- 
tain amount of curiosity supplemented the in- 


176 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


terest with which he regarded him, and the 
result was another discovery : that D’Argilesse’s 
charm was entirely superficial, and vanished as 
soon as one endeavored to account for it. The 
man was like a wall concealed behind sumptu- 
ous hangings of silk and velvet. Raise the 
curtain, and the obstacle stood revealed, hard, 
cold and impenetrable. 

It gave him a disagreeable shock, for Fonte- 
noy was extremely good-hearted. Under the 
thin varnish of cynicism appropriate to the 
man of fashion, was concealed, as was not in 
D’Argilesse’s case, a very feeling and sympa- 
thetic nature. Edmee was a liberal contributor 
to half a dozen charities; but Fontenoy cheer- 
fully assisted a long list of pensioners, old serv- 
ants, former comrades who had come to want, 
and his benefactions were concealed so studi- 
ously that even his wife did not know of 
them. To a man of such dispositions D’Argi- 
lesse’s views could not but be repugnant. 

‘‘I have made a mistake,” he said to himself. 

Whatever our endowments may be, we all give 
ourselves credit for our ability to read the char- 
acters of our fellow-men, and it is excessively 
disagreeable to find we have been mistaken in 
our judgments. Accordingly, Fontenoy ’s first 
impulse was one of ill- humor. 

Gilbert was at bottom nothing more than a 
great spoiled child; for life had always been 
kind to him, and he had never been disciplined 
by the lessons of adversity. His experience of 
the world, too, had been entirely supei'ficial. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


177 


He had lived ia a sort of comfortable dream, 
which in no wise precluded the most agreeable 
realities. His friends were, for the most part, 
the friends of his youth, and the acquaintances 
he had made in society were men uninfluenced by 
motives of interest, on whom he could depend 
implicitly. And now to them came D’Argilesse, 
a man of a different stripe, concealing beneath 
his garments of most recent style an element of 
mystery. 

Fontenoy resolved that he would watch him, 
and all at once it occurred to him that his wife 
had never seemed to share his liking for the 
stranger. 

‘‘I will ask her why,” he said to himself. 
“She must have a reason. She is a woman of 
good sound sense and always knows what she 
is doing.” 

Fabien Malvois had at last made his appear- 
ance on the scene under Comte Forest’s auspices. 
Juliette had received him very pleasantly, but 
if she was stirred by any emotion more pro- 
found than usual, she had not given visible 
eign of it. Since her return from Vichy, more- 
over, she had not seemed like herself : she was 
loss gay than was her wont, her sarcasm was 
perhaps more cutting, she appeared preoccupied, 
and at times melancholy. Still, she was always 
present on field-days at the fortress, and some- 
times took part in them, but did not display the 
enthusiasm that she infused into her dancing in 
the winter season. 

Fabien on his arrival had been confiscated by 


178 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


Maguelonne, who never failed to appropriate 
tD herself every male specimen of humanity 
over sixteen and under sixty, so that oppor- 
tunities for sustained conversation were not 
over-abundant in their almost daily reunions; 
and this afforded another reason for Juliette’s 
taciturnity. 

“I don’t know you any more,”*Edmee said to 
her one day. “Is this my Juliette, or is it some 
other girl whom they have sent back to me from 
the Clocher?” 

“Perhaps your Juliette is not ‘what a credu- 
lous generation thinks!’ ” she replied. “Don’t 
you remember the story of the parrot who for 
two years never once opened his mouth and 
then suddenly astounded his contemporaries by 
giving to the world a vocabulary as extensive 
as it was unexpected? How do you know that 
1 am not the counterpart of that learned and 
sagacious bird?” 

“Go two years without speaking?” said Gil- 
bert, who chanced to pass at that moment. “I 
defy you to do it!” 

“You know nothing at all about it, uncle,” 
Juliette rejoined. “I don’t tell everything I 
taink, or everything I see.” 

Fontenoy was amused. “You surprise me 
more and more!” he said. “What have you 
seen so extraordinary of late?” 

“Not much to speak of here. But at the 
castle — Where can your eyes be, uncle, if 
you have seen nothing?” 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


179 


Neither of her relatives could induce her to 
say what she had seen. She was silent with 
an obstinacy that was unusual with her. Fi- 
nally, wearying of the conflict, she came cut 
with the following declaration: 

‘‘For my part, I am thoroughly disgusted! 
It’s astonishing the way you respectable people 
allow the wool to be pulled over your eyes! 
You haven’t so very much to boast of, though, 
uncle, in the way of respectability ! With auntie 
the case is different. But you! you ought to 
know better! Well, it’s no business of mine; 
but, if there’s a gentleman on the face of the 
earth whom I can’t endure, it’s that M. d’Ar- 
gilesse.” 

“Has he been making love to you?” asked 
Fontenoy. 

“To me ? I’d like to see him try it once! ” 

And that was all they could elicit from her. 

Ail the next day a fine and penetrating rain 
fell without intermission on the scorched and 
yellow fields, which were sadly in need of it. 
Overheated nature seemed to be giving herself 
a resting spell, and the grateful humidity that 
filled the air predisposed every one to a delicious 
indolence. 

The sky, so far from being somber, was of a 
delicate shade of gray, shot, one felt, by the 
unseen rays of a sun that was still very near 
our globe. It rained, and yet the impression 
was not one of either melancholy or weariness. 
Every one knew that behind that thin curtain 
of mist there was fine weather, and that the 


180 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


blue sky was only awaiting the caprice of the 
wind to show itself. 

Juliette and her aunt, seated on the covered 
bridge with all the windows on one side thrown 
wide open, were looking out on the leaves, bright 
as if they had just been given a coat of varnish, 
dripping with the impalpable naoisture that had 
been bathing them since the morning. The tall 
cat-tails in the brook bowed their fuzzy heads 
under the accumulated weight of water. Every- 
thing had a relaxed, languid air that impressed 
one with a sensation of voluptuousness. 

‘‘I suppose uncle is over at the castle again?” 
said Juliette. After one or two desultory at- 
tempts to be industrious she had allowed her 
work to fall to the floor and had proceeded to 
make herself comfortable in a big bamboo easy- 
chair. ‘‘I should like to know what he can find 
there to amuse him.” 

“He is playing billiards with M. Fremont, 
who is bent on making up the points your uncle 
gave him the last time they- played,” Edmee 
replied. 

Being more diligent than her niece, she con- 
tinued her work; but with a moderation consist- 
ent with the condition of the atmosphere. 

“I wonder what Mme. Verseley is doing. 
Hid away in some corner, most likely, with 
somebody making love to her. Aunt, do you 
like M. d’Argilesse?” 

The question was so unexpected that Edmee 
could feel the blood rise to her cheeks. Ever 
since the incident of the gate the handsome 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


181 


angler, who had ceased to angle, had been 
more reserved in his manner ; and moreover, he 
had never had an opportunity of being alone in 
her company. But his way of looking at her 
when he thought he was not likely to be ob- 
served, proved clearly enough that he had not 
abandoned the pursuit. 

‘‘No,” said she, looking at her niece, who, 
with head erect, was waiting for her answer; 
“no, I don’t like him one bit.” 

“Why do you receive him, then?” 

“It is your uncle’s wish.” 

“Is there no way of sending him about his 
business?” 

“How could I? It is not customary to send 
about his business, as you express it, a mac. 
against whom there is no reproach to make. 

“And have you no reproach to make against 
him, aunt?” asked Juliette, still with the same 
fearless look. 

“Not otherwise than that I don’t like him,” 
Edmee replied, not a little ashamed of her 
evasiveness. 

“Well, I have a complaint to make against 
him if you have not!” the girl said with 
warmth. “I am angry with him for the 
blackguard, brutal way in which he pursues 
you with his attentions. No decent man looks 
at a respectable woman as he looks at you. 
Sometimes I have seen him watching you, and 
I have felt like slapping his face!” 

Edmee bent over her niece and kissed her on 
the forehead. “You are a good girl,” she said. 


182 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


“But among the jieople we mix with it is some- 
times best to pay no attention to such things. 
They are only deserving of our contempt.” 

Juliette shook her head with an air of reso- 
lution and disapprobation. “When I am mar^ 
ried,” she said, “if my husband brings men of 
that stripe to the house, I’ll soon give him to 
understand that they are not wanted there; let 
them keep to their club. I won’t have wolves 
introduced into my sheepfold — it’s too much 
honor for them.” 

While his niece was enunciating her theories, 
Fontenoy was making discoveries. As the 
weather did not permit of outdoor recreations, 
all the visitors at the feudal castle were assem- 
bled in the billiard- room. 

This was a spaciohs apartment, which had 
originally been intended to serve the purpose of 
an orangery, but Enguerrande had taken posses- 
sion of it and converted it into a sort of athletic 
clubhouse for rainy days. A little of every- 
thing was to be found in it, even comfortable 
seats and convenient screens. The latter inven- 
tion was Maguelonne’s. She was forever peep- 
ing behind those screens in the hope to find there 
the offer of marriage that was bound to come 
some day or other. Some women, they say, 
prepare their fall. Maguelonne was preparing 
her ascent to the Paradise of married women. 

Fontenoy was playing a listless game of bil- 
liards with the master of the house, D’Argi- 
lesse, and two gentlemen of the neighborhood. 
The ladies were watching them with languid 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


183 


interest, excepting Magaelonne, for whom the 
proceedings of a bachelor were always interest- 
ing. Mme. Yerseley came in, her lithe form 
advantageously displayed by an elegant close- 
fitting gown of some inconspicuous shade. She 
made the circuit of the billiard-table with great 
deliberation, stopping at every step she took, 
and finally settled down in front of Fontenoy, 
on a high bench that permitted her to overlook 
the game. 

Gilbert watched her movements with the 
rather sickly interest that we manifest for a per- 
son of whom we are a bit afraid. And then 
those movements, so supple, so seductive, trou- 
bled him still, do what he might. When she 
was seated, he gave a look at the sober- hued 
dress, further set off at neck and wrists by lace 
ruffies of an exquisite reddish shade, and sud- 
denly stood as if petrified, his eyes as big as 
saucers. 

“It’s your shot, Fontenoy,” D’Argilesse said 
to him. 

Fontenoy fired away mechanically, sending 
his ball careering aimlessly round the table, 
and turned his eyes again upon his quondam 
friend. Nestling among the lace ruffles gleamed 
a pin that was not unknown to him: two small 
diamonds connected by a thin chain of gold. 
Those two diamonds, that flashed intermit- 
tently in unison with the laze breathing of their 
owner, Mme. Yerseley had never worn in times 
gone by except to notify the acceptance of a 
rendezvous. He had looked for them often 


184 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


enough with feverish impatience, had discov- 
ered them often enough with rapturous joy 
among the complicated bedizenment of her 
attire, to know them again after many years; 
and it was not so very long since those twin 
stars of evil omen had shed their light for 
him. 

With that keenness of intuition that comes 
to us all at once in the great crises of our lives, 
Gilbert looked around the room. There should 
be another signal displayed ; but how was he to 
recognize it? He had not long to seek. Mme. 
Verseley had not bothered herself to tax her 
invention. What had served in Fontenoy’s 
case would answer for another. The selfsame 
pink that had served to announce their mutuai 
understanding now adorned the buttonhole of 
D’Argilesse’s sack coat. 

The blood rushed to Fontenoy’s head, there 
was a furious ringing in his ears. With un- 
steady steps he made his way to the glazed door, 
saying : 

“It is stifling here!” 

Enguerrande had already darted forward and 
thrown open the two leaves. A current of moist 
air, heavy with the emanations of the garden, 
swept like a benediction through the orangery 
and every one breathed more freely. Perched 
on her lofty bench as if it had been a throne, 
Mme. Verseley indifferently contemplated her 
submissive lieges. Her eyes encountered Fon- 
tenoy’s, which surveyed her with crushing 
scorn and wrath unutterable. Her eyelids did 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


186 


not droop, nor did her peachy cheeks become 
one single shade redder or whiter under that 
appalling look. Hers seemed to reply: ‘‘What 
business is it of yours? Am I not my own mis- 
tress? And you, if you could but know how 
little account I make of you!” The esteem of 
a gallant man, indeed, had not a feather’s weight 
in influencing the appreciations of a woman of 
Mine. Verseley’s stamp. 

Fontenoy returned to the table and went on 
with his game, but allowed himself to be scan- 
dalously beaten by old Fremont, who crowed 
loud and long over such an unexpected piece 
of luck. Gilbert might have taken his depart- 
ure after that, but he did not choose to do so ; 
he preferred to stay and fathom the mystery. 

And might it not be the effect of chance, pure 
and simple, after all? Why should not Mme. 
Yerseley wear her little pin, and why should not 
D’Argilesse deck his coat with a pink at a sea- 
son when pinks are abundant? The fact might 
have some significance in winter; but in the 
month of August? Juliette was right in her 
declaration that people delight in having the 
wool pulled over their eyes. At that moment 
Fontenoy was applying an entire fleece to his 
organs of perception. Mme. Fremont took it 
on her to remove it. 

“Is it to-morrow or the day after that you are 
going up to Paris, my dear?” she asked Mme. 
Yerseley. 

“The day after, my dear madame,” the other 
replied, and the twin diamonds on her bosom 


186 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


flashed as she turned with indolent grace toward 
the old lady. 

“Then you’ll match those skeins of wool for 
me, won’t you?” 

“If you desire it,” was the nonchalant 
reply. 

This should have been enough to enlighten 
Fontenoy. He was not overanxious to be con- 
vinced, however. Turning abruptly to D’Ar- 
gilesse, he said to him: 

“You were speaking of taking horseback 
exercise. Have you abandoned the idea?” 

“By no means,” replied D’Argilesse, who 
was practicing cushion shots with a single 
ball. “I shall run up to Paris to-morrow 
afternoon to give orders for sending down my 
saddle. Millot promises to have a mount ready 
for me next week. We can have some pleasant 
rides together if you feel inclined. But it won’t 
interfere with our game of tennis, mademoiselle, 
for I shall be back early, day after to-morrow 
morning.” 

This last remark was addressed to Mague- 
lonne, who had opened her mouth preparatory 
to protesting. D’Argilesse then turned delib- 
erately to Pontenoy. Their glances met, and in 
his friend’s inscrutable eyes Gilbert could see 
the wall which barred the way to all investiga- 
tion. 

“Let’s see,” D’Argilesse continued, “who is 
there about here that keeps horses? We must 
get up a big riding party; it’s the stupidest 
thing in the world, for there’s always certain 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


187 


to be a horse in the troop that kicks or has a 
vice of some kind. Still, it amuses the ladies.” 

They set to work to count up the riders of 
their neighborhood. Owing to the proximity 
of Chantilly there was quite a number of men 
who owned stables within a narrow radius, and 
it would be an easy matter to bring together a 
dozen well-mounted men and women for a pleas- 
ure ride. 

“We had better wait until the weather is a 
little cooler, ” D’Argilesse resumed, “and then, 
too, I shall be glad to have a chance to try that 
jumping mare of Millet’s. She’s a fine creat- 
ure, but they say her temper is none too good. 
Mme. Fontenoy does not ride, I think?” he 
added, turning to Gilbert; “nor Mdlle. Chas- 
sagny, either?” 

“My niece is a good horsewoman, and so is 
my wife, for that matter, but I think she has 
lost her liking for the exercise. It is long since 
she has been in the saddle.” 

“Perhaps she will feel like trying it again.” 

“As to that I cannot say,” Fontenoy replied, 
with more curtness than he was wont to infuse 
into his answers. 

The moisture still continued to drip upon the 
paths from the drooping branches, heavy with 
their weight of water; but the sun was shining 
forth from behind a cloud that was like a veil 
of tulle laced with gold. Alleging some pre- 
text, Gilbert took his departure. As he pursued 
his way, he vainly tried to think. The more he 


188 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


endeavored to fix his thoughts the more they 
seemed to fly from him. They slipped from him 
like elusive serpents and hid in the tangled 
thicket. 

When he reached home he at first thought 
he would go to his room, where he could be 
alone and reflect on his discomfiture and mental 
distress. Then a longing for consolation and 
words of comfort induced him to seek his wife’s 
society. She had always been so good, so ‘‘nice” 
to him; surely she would have some pleasant 
words to say. She was a born comforter, was 
Edmee; he had found that out when he was 
sick. He had a dim consciousness that his im- 
pressions of the present moment were very like 
those that he had experienced on emerging from 
that other serious trouble. 

Everything seemed to favor his designs: 
Juliette was writing to her mother, Edmee 
was alone in the small drawing-room. With 
his firm step, a little less elastic than it had been 
that morning, Fontenoy came forward and seated 
himself in a deep fauteuil, facing his wife’s low 
chair, near a window. 

One swift glance sufficed to show Mme. Fon- 
tenoy that her husband had been passing through 
a disagreeable experience. She did not expect 
that he would tell her what was the nature of 
it, and yet Gilbert’s face had not the close and 
secretive expression that she was only too ac- 
customed to behold on it. 

“Well,” she said, “have you been enjoying 
yourself?” 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


189 


‘‘No,” he replied, in a voice that gave her 
pain, “I let old Fremont beat me.” 

“Why, that was an act of charity! You 
ought to feel quite proud of it.” 

He gave her a mournful look, as if to re- 
proach her for her keen irony. She left her 
chair and came a little nearer to him. 

“Come,” she continued, persuasively; “tell 
me the news. What is going on? Has Mague^ 
lonne succeeded in finding a lover?” 

“No. Poor Maguelonne, I’m sorry for her. 
She’s a good girl! ” 

“I’ll not dispute it. Fabien Malvois wasn’t 
there, was he?” 

“No.” 

“Who was there?” 

“The two Duparcs, Orman t and his wife, 
three gentlemen from Chantilly, strangers to 
me — ” 

“Is that all?” 

“And D’Argilesse. ” 

He spoke the name as if against his will. 
Edmee looked at her husband closely, fearing 
he might have received some inkling of the 
man’s proceedings toward her. But he was not 
thinking of her; he was thinking with bitter- 
ness of Mrne. Verseley. He pulled himself to- 
gether and continued : 

Queer fellow, that D’Argilesse. One can 
never tell what he is thinking of.” 

“Perhaps that is because he doesn’t mean all 
he says.” 


190 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


“Do you think so? Perhaps it is also because 
he doesn’t say all he means.” 

“Both.” 

There was silence after this word, which 
Edmee enunciated with great distinctness. 

“I thought you liked him?” Fontenoy pres- 
ently said : 

“I? Not a bit of it. And no more does 
Juliette.” 

“I thought!” Gilbert absently went on. “What 
a queer thing society is, anyway! Two people 
meet every day, they fancy they know each 
other, and lo and behold ! they find they are as 
much strangers as they were in the beginning.” 

“Has he been doing something to annoy 
you?” asked Mme. Fontenoy in a tone almost 
of indifference. 

“Not a bit of it. But there are days when 
one seems to be more sensitive than on others, 
and to-day I found him less agreeable. There 
is something mysterious about him.” 

“Have less to do with him,” Edmee urged. 
“I should be glad, so far as I am concerned.” 

“I believe that is good advice,” Gilbert re- 
plied. 

His voice had a mournful sound, his eyes 
roved vacantly about the small apartment. 
His wife felt how deep was his craving for 
sympathy and words of kindness. Her sight 
was dim with the tears that her compassion a^d 
abundant goodness sent welling upward to her 
eyes, but she repressed them. 

“My poor Gilbert,” said her gentle heart, 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


191 


‘‘they have ill-used him, and I have no word 
of comfort for him ! What can they have been 
doing to him?” 

An intuition of the truth suddenly flashed 
across Edmee’s mind, arousing one of those 
pardonable impulses of wrath and hate toward 
her pretty, viperous rival that cause the blood 
to boil and the cheeks to tingle. 

“Was Mme. Verseley there?” she asked. 

“Of course.” 

Fontenoy had averted his eyes in answering. 
If she had dared she would have gone to him, 
taken his hands in hers, and said to him: “Look 
me in the eyes, confess your fault and what it 
has cost you, tell me the evil she has done you, 
so that I may console you with all the tender- 
ness and all the loyalty of my loving heart!” 
But the effort was beyond her strength. She 
' was forced to take refuge in generalities. 

“You were quite right, my friend,” she said, 
in more decided accents, “in declaring that so- 
ciety is a queer affair. No matter how differ- 
ent persons may be in character and disposition, 
we constantly see those who do not know them 
measuring them by the same standard. When 
I hear an estimate of that sort expressed I often 
: feel like laughing, and again, it makes me very 
angry. For instance, now, there are two per- 
sons who ought to understand each other, if any 
two persons in the world do. I mean M. d’Ar- 
gilesse and Mme. Verseley. 

Gilbert turned toward her as if he had re- 
ceived an electric shock. 


192 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


‘‘If they had married each other,” Edmee 
continued, “I believe that they would have 
been perfectly matched. Their views of life 
are almost identically the same; they love no 
one but themselves — ” 

“How happens it that you know them so 
well?” asked Fontenoy, profoundly astonished. 

“I judge him by what he says, and her by 
what she does. Neither of them has the least 
particle of feeling. They are creatures who, to 
achieve their end, would not hesitate an instant 
to bring down ruin and suffering on their best 
friends. I am afraid of such people, and I shun 
them. It seems to me that no good can result 
from their companionship.” 

“They are what we call egotists,” Gilbert re- 
marked, reflecti vel3L 

“Thej^ are something worse than that, my 
friend. An egotist is one whose sole aim is 
his own pleasure or profit; but he does not 
necessarily seek these to the detriment of 
others; while that person, the lady of whom 
I’m speaking, I’m convinced experiences a 
keen pleasure in the thought that she has 
been the cause of suffering.” 

Fontenoy made no answer. His old wound 
had commenced to bleed again, and like one 
with an internal hemorrhage, he felt himself 
slowly suffocating. 

“I can understand that natures such as those 
are repugnant to you, Edmee,” he said, at last. 
“You are goodness personified.” 

His head had grown so heavy that he was 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


193 


I unable longer to sustain its weight. He let 
it sink upon his chest. 

“Do you feel badly?” Edmee inquired, rising 
■ and going toward him. 

“I have only a headache. It’s this weather — ” 

He was very pale. She came nearer to 
: him. 

I “ Would you like to have me rub your fore- 
I head?” said she. “My hands are cool.” 
j Without waiting for his answer she placed 
! herself behind his chair, rested his head againsfc 
a bosom within which a heart was beating more 
tumultuously than it was wont to do, and applied 
her firm, gratefully cool hands to his throbbing 
, temples. 

“Does that give you comfort?” she asked.] 

“Ever so much. I thank you.” 

She stood there for a while, scarce daring to 
breathe, fearing he would notice the quickened 
I ^ pulsations of that heart which was unreservedly 
i his. Gradually her fear subsided and her tran- 
1 quill ity returned to her. Her hands were becom- 
! ing warm, too. She changed their position, and 
I her own bosom was penetrated by that sensation 
of well-being with which she had inspired an- 
i' other. Presently Gilbert’s more regular respira- 
I ' tion announced that he was suffering less, and 
she took away her hands. He raised his head 
\V and appeared to be himself again. 

“I thank you,” he said. “I feel a great deal 
^ better. I was aware what a capital nurse you 
'$ are, Edmee, but I did not know that you were 
I a magician.” 


194 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


He smiled at the recollection of the nights and 
days she had spent at his bedside, and sought his 
wife’s eyes, but she was looking elsewhere. 

‘‘You nursed me,” he went on, “with a devo- 
tion that I remember with a gratitude much 
more easy to imagine than to express. Did I 
ever tell you so?” 

“No,” she murmured. 

“Then I was very remiss, and I beg you to 
forgive me. It was often in my mind, but that 
was not enough.” 

“It was quite sufficient,” she replied, gaining 
courage to turn her eyes on him. 

“I do not agree with you. I should have told 
you of it in words; but my convalescence was 
slow, and sick people are always ungrateful. 
No sooner is their health restored to them than 
their sole thought is to get back to the pleasures 
of existence, like schoolboys longing to be off to 
their sports.” 

“And sometimes we are not as prudent as we 
should be,” Edmee gently said. 

“I don’t think I was imprudent; but it can’t 
be denied that my health is not what it was. I 
have you by me, fortunately.” . 

He put out his hand; she placed hers in it, 
and he imprinted on it a warm kiss that con- 
tained an abundant measure of sincere grati- 
tude. 

“It is very absurd, perhaps,” said he, with an 
emotion greater than he would have cared to 
let her see, “but just now, while you were 
rubbing my temples, I felt my ingratitude as 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


195 


keenly as a remorse. There is another thing, 
too, for which I have never thanked you — ” 

She had a presentiment of what he was about 
to say, and stopped him with a motion of he^ 
hand. She longed eagerly to hear him say it, 
and yet was afraid. 

“I will speak, nevertheless. It was the day 
when I asked you to burn — ” 

‘‘Say no more,” said she in a low tone. 

“Yes; I must. What you did that day was 
worthy of an honest man, my dear wife. It 
was a fine action — there are very few wives 
whom a husband could have asked to do such 
a thing.” 

“It was a simple matter,” she replied. 
“What one can ask of an honest man he can 
equally well ask of an honest woman, I suppose. 
You had rendered services to others of which 
you did not wish to leave behind you any record 
which might be disagreeable to the recipients — 
it was thus that I interpreted the affair. There 
was nothing that called for thanks from you. 
Am I not your wife? But even had fate de- 
creed that you were not to survive, you might 
have rested perfectly assured in mind. You 
might have been certain that every scrap of 
paper that had not some bearing on our com- 
mon interests, that did not relate directly to you 
and me, would have been destroyed, and that 
without my even dreaming of reading it.” 

Edmee’s hand was not very far away. He 
bent forward and regained possession of it. 
Shutting his eyes to imprison there a tear 


196 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


that was endeavoring to escape, he kissed it 
a second time with the same fervor as before, 
then released it. 

Edmee returned to her low chair and he e.' 
posed himself comfortably in the fauteuil, wher j 
presently he fell asleep, with an expression on 
his face of peace and trustfulness. Then, while 
her work, which she had taken up again but 
left untouched, fell to the floor, Mme. Fontenoy 
directed her gaze on her husband; her hands 
came together slowly in an attitude of prayer, 
and with tearful eyes, her heart full of unutter- 
able pity, she contemplated him for a long, long 
time. 


XV. 

As Fontenoy had foreseen, Mme. Verseley 
left for Paris by the early train, and D’Argi- 
lesse, returning that same day soon after break- 
fast, was enabled to participate in Maguelonne’s 
game of tennis. No one could have suspected 
that those two planets, apparently so distant 
from each other, had been in conjunction in the 
intervening time. 

Mme. Verseley did not make her appearance 
until evening, shortly before dinner-time. She 
was perfectly cool and self - possessed, and 
brought back with her a multitude of small 
purchases, commissions which she had been 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


197 


given to execute by the inhabitants of the 
feudal castle; which, to one who knew as much 
as Fontenoy did, showed her to be an expeditious 
woman of business. Gilbert, still weak and 
consumed by the desire — that often besets us so 
inopportunely — of probing disagreeable matters 
to the bottom, had insisted on spending his 
evening at the Fremont’s and taking with him 
Edmee, who docilely submitted to all his plans. 
Perhaps she also harbored a secret wish to see 
with her own eyes what it was that had so 
broken up her husband. 

She saw nothing, but she divined everything. 
The innocent allusions made by third parties to 
the little journeys of the pair would have in- 
structed her as to the truth, even had she sus- 
pected nothing. 

‘‘The folks here must be stone-blind,’^ she 
said to herself; “or else profoundly engrossed 
with their own affairs, to see nothing of this 
flirtation! ” 

D’Argilesse seemed as completely at his ease 
as Mme. Verseley herself, and that is saying 
not a little. Fontenoy even felt a little abashed 
in his presence, owing to the same causes per- 
haps that made Edmee hold aloof from the 
pretty viper. But Gilbert was sufficiently a 
man of the world to overcome his repugnance. 
Besides, a moment’s reflection showed him that 
he had no real grievance against D’Argilesse. 
The latter had been guilty of no underhand 
practices, had done his friend no substantial 
injury. It was not the fault of the present 


198 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


favorite if Fontenoy had ceased to please. 
There was no reason to suspect that the rupt- 
ure with Gilbert was at all owing to any inter- 
ference on the part of his more fortunate rival. 
Whatever reason, therefore, he might have for 
changing his attitude toward D’Argilesse, he 
had no pretext for outwardly manifesting his 
new sentiments. 

Mme. Fontenoy was wondering how D’Argi- 
lesse would comport himself toward her. It 
was sheer simplicity on her part: nothing was 
changed, why should he alter his behavior? 
Edmee’s uprightness revolted at the spectacle 
of such impudence, and all her honest soul 
went out in a festival of thanksgiving for 
that which it pleased her to consider a little less 
than miraculous deliverance. Forest, in show- 
ing her what were her true sentiments toward 
her husband, had hardly done her a more impor- 
tant service than D’Argilesse himself when he 
presented himself before her without his mask. 
But the two of them together had undeniably 
saved her from the peril of yielding, in her 
moment of exasperation and vexation, to an 
impulse of coquetry for which, however venial 
it might have been, she would have now been 
doing penance in sackcloth and ashes. 

D’Argilesse wore his usual manner when he 
approached Mme. Fontenoy. Since the day of 
their encounter beside the IsTonnette they had had 
no opportunity of conversing with each other at 
length. Edmee, although she was troubled with 
a certain amount of curiosity, had no desire for 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


199 


the interview which he was bent on compassing. 
He felt that he had been thoroughly discomfited 
on that occasion, and was not the kind of man 
to sit down tamely under a repulse. Profiting by 
a moment when she and Mine. Fremont were 
alone together, he went and took a seat near 
them, assured that the worthy lady would take 
advantage of his presence to go and superin- 
tend her domestic arrangements. The event 
showed that his prevision was correct. When 
they were alone and their voices were covered 
by the usual droning accompaniment of laugh- 
ter and conversation, he contemplated with 
stealthy attention the woman who had escaped 
him by an unlooked-for effort of her will. 

In the opinion of that subduer of female 
hearts the coldness that she had since that 
time evinced toward him could not proceed 
from a sentiment of offended delicacy. What 
then could be the cause that had effected such 
a revolution in Mme. Fontenoy’s ideas? If he 
was forced to acknowledge himself beaten, he 
desired at least to know to what he was to at- 
tribute his defeat. But Edmee was impenetrable. 
With a polite smile, more chilling even than an 
open declaration of hostility, she listened with- 
out interrupting him, than which nothing is 
more calculated to cool one’s ardor. Under 
the stimulus of his vexation and disappoint- 
ment he grew warmer, coming back to his pet 
theories, urging the flight of time, the hollow- 
ness of an old age that has no memories to re- 
vert to. She allowed him to go on until he had 


200 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


exhausted his arguments, with no other sign 
that she heard than an occasional look directed 
upon the specious pleader. 

‘‘But I see,” said he, at last, piqued by this 
attitude of hers, “that for the last fifteen minutes 
our conversation has been a monologue, and I- 
fear I have bored you mercilessly. Pardon a 
philosopher who is infatuated with his doc- 
trines. ’ ’ 

“Not at all; it is very entertaining,” Edmee 
replied. “It is a conception of life that I have 
heard you expound before, but seldom with such 
eloquence. It interests me the more that it opens 
up before me, I must confess, entirely new hori- 
zons, to which my prosaic understanding finds 
it somewhat difficult to accommodate itself. You 
will forgive my ignorance, however, which must 
appear to you ridiculous in a woman whose day 
for asking such simple questions has long gone 
by. What happens when an agreeable man — 
one of your fellow disciples in philosophy, we’ll 
say, for instance — attempts to instruct two wo- 
men at the same time in his ethical doctrines?” 

The thrust told. D’Argilesse was stung to the 
quick. Could it be that beneath her outward 
appearance of simplicity, Edmee concealed such 
rare perspicacity? That was probably the solu- 
tion of the problem, for as he had intrusted his 
secret to no one, therefore no one could have be- 
trayed him. Be that as it might, his overthrow 
was complete and irremediable. He would not 
admit it, however, without first inflicting on his 
adversary a wound that she would be likely to 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


201 


remember. Bowing slightly with ironical po- 
liteness, he replied, in a low voice : 

‘‘A man never says such things to two wo- 
men at the same time, dear madame. One of 
them stands for the past, or, at best, the present ; 
for her there is no further need of explanations. 
The other is the future. She is our hope. Is 
it not permissible to expose to her our inmost 
thoughts?” 

Edmee’s face became very pale, and she rose 
to leave her insolent persecutor. Juliette, who 
had been keeping an eye on her, came up to her 
support. 

“Monsieur,” she said, with an air of inno- 
cence, “I understand that Mme. Verseley was 
looking for you just now.” 

“I will use all diligence in finding her, made- 
moiselle, ’ ’ he said, and took himself away. 

Mme. Fontenoy resumed her seat. She was 
trembling with anger, and could hardly hold 
herself erect. Her niece stood before her to shield 
her from the glances of the curious. 

“I have just gained for myseH two lifelong 
enemies,” the young girl tranquilly said. 

“Who, pray?” asked Edmee, recovering her 
self-control. 

“Why, that gentlemanly individual and Mme. 
Verseley, of course.” 

“How?” 

“Oh, easily enough. It was all a fib; Mme. 
Verseley had not asked for him. Catch her 
asking for him ! She knows a little too much 


202 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


for that. But I wanted to release you from his 
attentions.” 

The eyes of the two women met. Mme. Fon- 
tenoy knew not what to say, so false the situa- 
tion was. 

“I am not a little child, auntie,” Juliette went 
on, in a protecting tone. “We’ll admit that I 
ought to make believe I am densely ignorant of 
the things I ought not to know, but that’s only 
when there are people about ; between you and 
me, it isn’t necessary, is it? I have been watch- 
ing their goings on this long time. They are 
none of my business, and they don’t interest 
me. But the moment that gentleman begins to 
annoy you, he’ll find he has me to deal with!” 

It was a pretty sight to see her playing the role 
of small protectress. Her bright, vigilant black 
eyes rested on Mme. Fontenoy with motherly 
tenderness, and the red that flamed in her cheeks 
with a deeper intensity than usual lent her a 
singular attractiveness. Edmee, while laying 
her own caressing fingers on the small, cool 
hand, in token of her thanks, regretted that Fa- 
bien was not4here to see. Presently she caught 
sight of him at the far end of the room, and 
beckoned him to come to her. He obeyed forth- 
with, and with the two young folks beside her 
she felt at ease once more. 

“I thought we were never going to see you 
again,” she said, smiling pleasantly at the 
young man. “When you stay away we miss 
you.” 

“You are too kind! I only wish it were in 


AN OLD FOLTks’ WOOING. 


203 


my power to show myself deserving of such flat- 
tering words. What can I do to merit them?’’ 

“Go and get a cup of tea for my aunt and a 
glass of orangeade for me, if you please,” said 
Juliette; “then we’ll see if there’s anything else 
to do.” 

When he had departed the young girl said, 
under her breath : 

“Why do you insist on announcing to the 
world an engagement which as yet has neither 
form nor substance?” 

“Is that as far as it has got?” asked Edmee, 
gazing admiringly on her niece’s pretty face. 

“Why, yes! We’ll speak of the matter later, 
when we get home ; here the walls have ears, to 
say nothing of your messenger. Dear me, how 
he has hurried! Here he is back again, amd 
hasn’t spilled a drop, either. What marvelous 
dexterity ! Are you aware, sir, that if we should 
have a panic, you might earn an honest living 
by acting as assistant to a prestidigitator? I 
verily believe that you are capable of spiriting 
Mme. Fremont away in a cocked hat, should the 
necessity arise.” 

Whereon she flew away to claim her share in 
the dance which Enguerrande had promised 
them, provided some one could be found to take 
turns with her at the piano. And all the rest of the 
evening she could be seen flitting here and there, 
bright, gay, and full of animal spirits, as if her 
young head had never known what it was to 
harbor a serious thought. 

When the time came for them to go home, Ed- 


204 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


mee went to her husband where he was standing 
conversing animatedly with some of their neigh- 
bors, and touched him softly on the shoulder. 
He started, but his face brightened as he recog- 
nized her. A moment later the three of them 
were walking on the level road, beneath the rays 
of a slender moon, sufficient to indicate their way 
to them, but not bright enough to cast their 
shadows on it. The night was still and very 
mild. 

“Ah!” said Juliette, as they entered the 
grounds of La Tremblaye, “I’m glad to get 
back; after all, Hhere’s no place like home.’ It’s 
very strange, this is a mill, and I can live in it 
and be perfectly at peace; while the Fremonts’ 
place is a fortress, and one would declare it was 
a mill; the floors seem to tremble and the whole 
building to vibrate.. Good-night, uncle; good- 
night, aunt!” 

Fontenoy lingered a moment, contemplating 
the tall trees slumbering in the mellow light. 

“What she says is true,” said he; “the scene 
is calm and restful — like yourself, dear Edmee. 
Sleep well; I can hardly keep my eyes open.” 

The next morning Juliette went and knocked 
at the door of her aunt’s dressing-room. The 
hour and the place were greatly affected by them 
both for their secret conferences. She selected a 
comfortable seat, deliberately folded her hands, 
and said : 

“Aunt, it is my belief that my marriage is 
going to be a flash in the pan.” 

“Why, Juliette!” exclaimed Mme. Fontenoy, 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


205 


with consternation. ‘‘I thought you had come 
to tell me that it was all arranged.” 

“No, my dear aunt, we are not on the direct 
road to the altar. It seems that I don’t suit M. 
Malvois.” 

Edmee turned so as to face her niece, and 
looked her straight in the eyes. “Can’t you see 
that he is so in love with you that he has lost 
his appetite for meat and drink?” 

“His eating I cannot vouch for;H pay no at- 
tention to his performances in that line. But as 
for his drinking, did I not with my own eyes, 
last night, behold him dispose of two glasses of 
lemonade, one after the other, that were handed 
him by Maguelonne?” 

“Can it be that you are suffering from an 
attack of jealousy?” asked Mme. Fontenoy. 

^^You have never been jealous, my dear aunt, 
I suppose?” 

Edmee gave a retrospective glance among her 
memories — not too profoundly, however — and 
was silent. But her niece was not to be dis- 
posed of so easily. 

“You never have been jealous? Then you 
should say so ; for in that case, don’t you know, 
you are deserving of a reward — the order of 
Agricultural Merit, at the very least. Well, 
grant that I am jealous; what’s the harm in 
it?” 

With her arms folded tight across her bosom, 
and her head thrown slightly^ back, she looked 
with an air of comical defiance at her aunt, who 
could not refrain from laughing. 


206 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


‘‘I see no harm in it,” she replied; ‘4t proves 
that you love M. Malvois, and as that is what I 
desire most of all — ” 

“Love him!” said Juliette, uncrossing her 
arms. “Perhaps that is stating the case a little 
too broadly. But I don’t like to see him too po- 
lite to some one else. ’ ’ 

“You are an out and out monopolist! What 
will you do when you are married?” 

“Oh, when I’m married I shan’t care so much. 
There v/ill be occasions when I can have him to 
myself. Even when people are married, they 
are alone together once in a while, aren’t they? 
I am not speaking of the country, or when they 
are away traveling. But even at Paris they 
have some moments to devote to each other, and 
those are the times when I’ll bring my husband 
to the confessional— when I’ll worm out of him 
his most secret thoughts. But you don’t put 
yourself in my place, as you ought to do, kindest 
of aunts. A poor little maiden on the lookout 
for a husband, what is to become of her if the 
gentleman who proposes to marry her pays her 
no attention?” 

“ While you are about it, you may as well 
confess, too, that you do not extend much en- 
couragement to M. Malvois.” 

“You want me to encourage him? And I who 
have all along been afraid of shocking your 
sense of the proprieties. Nevermind! I’ll en- 
courage him — see if I don’t! With the authori- 
zation of the constituted authorities, as they say 
down at the town hall — ” 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


207 


‘‘Not so fast, Juliette! You must not forget 
that — ” 

“ — from the battlements of their fortress all 
the Fremonts are looking down on us! I’ll try 
to bear it in mind. But, then, you must grant 
us a little tete-a-tete — just the tiniest bit of a 
tete-a-tete. You are altogether too watchful, 
Aunt Edmee, if you’ll permit me to say so. I’ve 
seen the time, here in this very room, not long 
ago, when I thought I should have to ask you to 
sit down at the piano and play us a waltz — peo- 
ple can talk while they are waltzing. But you 
wouldn’t have done it, I know you wouldn’t.” 

“That you can rest assured of!” Edmee re- 
plied. “And what do you propose to say to 
him^ in this tete-a-tete?” 

“Now, auntie, that is no concern of yours! It 
is me whom he is going to marry, not you!” 
“Still—” 

“I’ll swear to you to be perfectly decorous. 
Come, what shall I swear it on?” 

“Swear not at all; it is needless. Well, as he 
is to dine with us this evening, we’ll get up a 
rubber of whist, Comte Forest, your uncle and I 
— with a dummy. ’ ’ 

“Oh, you darling aunt! You must let me 
hug you ! There, I have mussed your hair ; fix 
it up again. That’s it; now you are as beautiful 
as an angel. And please consider how nice it is 
of me to tell you so, when I have obtained what 
I asked for, and there is nothing more to be got 
from you.” 

An hour or so after dinner Edmee, mindful of 


208 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


her promise, summoned Forest and her husband 
to the whist-table. 

“I thought you did not care for cards?” re- 
marked her old friend, as he came forward in 
obedience to her call. 

“I don’t, but we must do something for the 
children’s sake,” she replied. 

‘‘The children” were seated not far away in 
a cosy corner favorable to confidential converse, 
fenced in by a table on which was a high lamp. 
Two easy-chairs, sufficiently near each other to 
encourage conversation, sufficiently remote to dis- 
courage undue familiarity, bore witness to the 
tact and discretion of the mistress of the house. 

Fabien was conscious of some emotion. This 
was the first time that the young girl had ac- 
corded him anything that resembled a prear- 
ranged interview, and though she had not thus 
far shown herself hostilely disposed toward him 
that day, he thought he could read in her man- 
ner a reserve that did not appear to him to augur 
well. 

‘ “Monsieur Malvois,” she said to him, having 
cast a preliminary glance in the direction of the 
card-table, “I should like to know what is your 
opinion of me.” 

Tt seemed almost like a direct invitation to him 
to launch out into a declaration in the most ap- 
proved rhapsodical style; but Fabien was too 
wise to walk into the trap, if for such it were 
intended. 

“I think, mademoiselle,” said he, “that noth- 
ing would afford me greater pleasure than to 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


209 


know in what esteem yon hold my humble per- 
son.” 

“Is that your desire? I’ll tell you. I think 
that you are very amiable; you have intelli- 
gence, and a great deal of learning. Those 
are things that I don’t so very much care for 
myself, but most people attach importance to 
them. You dance well — not to perfection, but 
well enough. And, let’s see^ — what more is 
there? I think that’s all. Now it’s your turn.” 

She looked at him triumphantly ; he smiled on 
her with a beatific air. 

“You, mademoiselle, have every grace of 
mind and person — and not a single defect, ’ ’ he 
answered. 

“We are getting on finely!” Juliette disdain- 
fully observed. “If we keep on in this way mid- 
night will surprise us ; the old folks will have 
finished their game, and we shan’t have ad- 
vanced a step further than we are now. Come, 
I’ll put a more direct question to you: Did you 
ever know your mother?” 

Fabien was surprised ; it was the last question 
lie would have expected her to ask him. Still, 
it was no more than natural that she should 
make inquiries concerning his family, if she had 
any thought of marrying him. But the memory 
thus suddenly evoked had set a cord vibrating, 
and when he answered it was in a graver tone. 

“I was only ten years old when she died, but 
her memory still remains very distinct.” 

“Did you love her?” 

“Yes, very dearly. Her loss, little as I was 


210 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


at the time, was a terrible blow to me ; it was 
my first acquaintance with sorrow.” 

Juliette’s eyes sank, and she was silent; pres- 
ently she resumed : 

“Can you remember her?” 

“As if she were still living. I do not think 
that a day ever passes over my head without my 
beholding her again in memory, as she used to 
appear to me when I went to give her my good- 
night kiss.” 

“ Was she pretty?” 

“To me she appeared very beautiful — as she 
was, if her portraits are to be relied on.” 

“And she,” Juliette continued, “did she love 
you? She was kind and good to you, wasn’t 
she?” 

The young man hesitated. Was it fitting that 
this memory, which he cherished so tenderly in 
the deepest recesses of his being, should be made 
the topic of an idle evening’s conversation? He 
looked at the pretty child whom for the last six 
months he had been regarding in the light of a 
possible wife. She sat waiting for his answer, 
with serious mien and grave look. 

Suddenly a sensation of shame and self-re- 
proach rose to his mind. True, for the last six 
months he had been doing his best to win her 
favor ; but had he ever attempted to raise her 
and himself to a level somewhat higher than the 
ordinary commonplaces of their surroundings? 
They had danced together, and, as Juliette had 
said, in the inter ral between two waltzes, had 
now and then exchanged ideas on music, paint- 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


211 


ing, literature — so far as a girl just out of school 
can have ideas on these subjects. But what did 
they really know of each other? Must it not be 
set down to her credit, as an instance of fearless 
candor, that she could question him thus on his 
inmost and most sacred feelings before consent- 
ing to share her life with him? That marriage 
of love that he had dreamed of, instigated thereto 
by Edmee, would it be worthy of the name 
should they begin their new life absolute stran- 
gers to each other, save for the evidence of their 
eyes, and such ideas as we form of those we love 
by dint of constantly dreaming of them? Like 
the honest, loyal man he was, he rested his eyes 
on Juliette, and saw that she was waiting pa- 
tiently, in the belief that her question was impor- 
tant, and that he was doing right in reflecting 
before answering it. 

“Yes, mademoiselle,” he slowly said, “my 
mother loved me very tenderly — as much as I 
loved her, and even more, perhaps ; for a moth- 
er’s capacity for loving exceeds that of her little 
ones. We suffer ourselves to be loved when we 
are small.” 

“And when we are older, too, sometimes,” 
said Juliette, with a glance at Mme. Fontenoy, 
where she sat in the bright circle of the lamp- 
light. “And so your life was a happy one, with 
madame your mofher?” 

“Perfectly happy. I was with her almost all 
my time, outside the hours devoted to my les- 
sons. Whenever she went out she took me with 
her. I remember the charming rides we had 


212 AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 

together, on summer afternoons, in the great 
landau. We would, .start out after dinner, while 
it was still bright day, and the sun’s rays were 
casting over the woods and fields a mantle of 
haze that resembled golden dust. We would 
meet the husbandmen returning from their toil, 
their tools across their shoulder and their dinner- 
basket on their head. We would exchange 
greetings with them, and sometimes my mother 
would have the coachman stop the horses, that 
she might have a moment’s converse with those 
humble folk whom she knew and who loved her. 
And then the sun sank lower and lower, sending 
forth level rays that skimmed the surface of the 
ground and made the shadows on the dusty road 
appear fantastically long. At last, the day-star 
would disappear. Then I would search the 
heavens for the first star; sometimes I was a 
long time looking for it, and when I had found 
it I would pull gently at mamma’s sleeve to let 
her know. She always knew what that meant, 
would look upward to the zenith, and when she 
had descried it would answer: ‘Yes, Fabien; I 
see it.’ After that I would feel tired; I would 
pillow my head on her lap, and we would drive 
home in the gathering darkness, amid the pleas- 
ant odors of the dewy fields. Sometimes, when 
I was smaller, I used to fall asleep and on awak- 
ing find myself in my own little bedroom, whither 
my father had carried me. My mother would 
undress me while in that semi-conscious state, 
but I was always wide enough awake to feel her 
kiss upon my cheek. ’ ’ 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


213 


Fabien had spoken in a low, rapt voice, with- 
out break or pause, as if he beheld the phantoms 
of his youthful memories rising before his vision. 
Juliette, motionless as a statue, listened to him 
gravely. When he ceased she was silent, and 
the young man felt that his words had produced 
a profound impression on her. After a moment 
she asked him, still with downcast eyes : 

‘‘And your father, is your memory of him 
equally distinct?” 

“Oh, my father!” Fabien replied; “he and I 
were the best of friends. Imagine! when he 
died I was nineteen years old. We were com- 
rades, and still I had all the respect for him that 
a boy should entertain toward his parent. But 
my respect was so tempered by a sentiment of 
confiding friendliness that I was hardly conscious 
of it ; I simply regarded him as my best friend. ’ ’ 

“He was your best friend,” Juliette gravely 
said. 

“You are right. We had delightful times 
traveling together. He was excellent company, 
always bright and cheerful, with a temperament 
that disposed him to look on the sunny side of 
life, so that no one ever retained his ill-humor 
long in his society. When I was young I was a 
little — how shall I express it? Well, a little of a 
prig, we’ll say; and about the time I was fifteen, 
being impressed with an exalted notion of my 
own desert, I had become very consequential and 
used to assume magisterial airs — ” 

“You?” asked Juliette, smiling to herself, for 
she had not yet raised her eyes. 


214 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


‘‘Even I, who have the honor of relating the 
fact to you. But I got over that pretty soon, I 
warrant you ! My father took me with him to 
Switzerland, on a vacation jaunt, and pointed 
out to me my own absurdities in such a witty 
and good-natured way, in the people whom we 
met with —and we saw any quantity of ridicu- 
lous old fellows at the tables-d’hote in the course 
of our six months’ trip — that I never afterward 
had the least inclination to revert to my former 
practices. And that was effected without scold- 
ing or sermonizing on his part — merely by a 
droll remark now and then, a careless word spo- 
ken at random, that served to remind me at even- 
ing that I had made a fool of myself that morn- 
ing. Ah ! what a friend I lost in him ! The 
only thing that afforded me any comfort in my 
deprivation is the reflection that we were per- 
fectly happy in each other, and that never, save 
in circumstances that lay beyond my control, 
was I cause to him of serious anxiety. There 
was only one thing that was a source of sorrow 
to me. My father could not bear to hear me 
mention my mother’s name after she was taken 
from us.” 

“Why?” asked Juliette. 

“At first I think it was to avoid wounding 
my sensibility ; at a later period I imagine it 
was because he had loved her too tenderly to 
speak of her to any one; his heart had never 
healed. I often regretted it. I never insisted 
on introducing a subject that was painful to him. 
Still, it would have been a great comfort to me.” 


AJT OLD folks’ WOOING. 


215 


J uliette sighed and slightly shivered, as if a 
burden were resting on her young shoulders. 

“That being so,” she said, seriously, even a 
little sadly, “loving your mother as you did, 
you must consider it very strange of me that I 
neglect mine as I do.” 

He made a gesture of denial, but she did not 
allow him to speak. 

“It is true. I am seen everywhere, visiting, 
going from house to house and enjoying myself, 
and every one knows that I have an ailing moth- 
er, who does not leave her room. It cannot but 
give people an unfavorable opinion of me, and 
still I assure you that I do not deserve it.” 

“Believe me, mademoiselle — ” 

“Yes, I know; you had never thought of the 
matter. Gentlemen don’t usually devote much 
reflection to the mothers of their young lady ac- 
quaintances ; when they do think of them it is to 
consider the mother-in-law aspect of the ques- 
tion, and then the less they meditate the better. 
But when the mother-in-law question is not 
under consideration, and you see a young lady 
who doesn’t go with her mother, and doesn’t 
seem to trouble herself the least bit about her, it 
must produce a very bad impression. You must 
say to yourselves, ‘She is heartless.’ How, mon- 
sieur, I don’t want you to think that I am. heart- 
less. I have a great deal of love for my poor 
mamma. If I am here instead of being with 
her, it is because I am acting in obedience to 
her desire. She said to me : ‘Go, and have a 
good time.’ I know that I have the appearance 


216 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


of enjoying myself, monsieur; I am well aware 
that I appear so. But, oh ! at heart I am often- 
times very, very sad. And I tell you this be- 
cause it would be unfair that you should think ill 
of me on those grounds.” 

Juliette’slips were beginning to quiver. Strive 
as she might to control herself, her emotion was 
too strong for her will power, and Fabien dared 
not look at her. Perhaps his perturbation would 
have been less had it not been for that whist- 
table over against them. 

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “I have always en- 
tertained the highest opinion of you, and within 
the last few minutes that good opinion has grown 
immeasurably. I confess that the thought of 
madame your mother has not greatly occupied 
my mind. I knew that she was ailing and did 
not mingle in society, and it appeared to me 
quite natural that your aunt should have kept 
you with her, in order that you might have some 
of the pleasures suited to your age and station. 
I could discern that you were good, mademoi- 
selle, under your apparent — ” 

“Apparent what?” asked Juliette, v/hose 
smile was gradually beginning to return. 

“You disconcert me terribly. Suppose we say 
— no, not that. Light-heartedness — how will 
that do?” 

“I am light-hearted, monsieur, really and 
truly I am ; but that doesn’t preclude the possi- 
bility of sentiment, as my nurse used to say when 
I was a little thing. And I love my mother not- 
withstanding, I assure you. In former sum- 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


217 


mers I remained with her; we went to the sea- 
shore. And then her condition underwent a 
change; she became very ill. And now I am 
here, but it is at her desire ; for I asked her to 
let me stay with her at the Clocher, although it 
is not a deliriously diverting place, the Clocher. 
There, monsieur, that’s what I wanted to tell 
you.” 

She rose. Fabien would have liked to ask her 
a hundred questions, or, better still, perhaps, a 
single one that should have contained the essence 
of them all. But she was already stationed be- 
hind her uncle’s chair, overlooking the cards 
that he held in his hand. 

“Not that one, uncle; not that one? What in 
the world can you be thinking of? Haven’t you 
the whole day to look at Aunt Edmee in that 
you need to be admiring her while playing 
whist?” 

Fontenoy blushed, actually blushed, like a 
schoolboy caught red-handed, and played the 
card indicated by his niece, thereby provoking 
a general laugh at his expense. 

“I don’t know what I was thinking of,” he 
said, apologetically; “it must have been this 
little girl who upset my calculations. Little 
girl, you are insupportable!” 

Juliette laughed loud and merrily, throwing 
back her head like a bird in the act of singing. 
Fabien looked at her ecstatically ; Forest’s eyes 
were directed across tli5 table on Edmee, who 
was charming in her slight- embarrassment. A 
servant entered the room with a telegram. Fon- 


218 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


tenoy took it and laid it down in front of him 
unopened. 

“The messenger is waiting for answer,” said 
the servant. 

“Pardon me,” said Gilbert to his friends, as 
he tore open the blue envelope. 

“It is for you, my dear,” said he, handing it 
to his wife, who read : 

“Come at once with Juliette.” 

Terror and alarm were on Edmee’s face. “My 
poor sister sends for us to come to her,” she 
said. “She must be worse!” 

“What do you propose to do?” asked Fonte- 
noy. 

They had all risen, leaving their cards strewn 
on the table. 

“Start at once,” exclaimed Juliette, who as 
yet had uttered no word. “Now, aunt; right 
away, I beseech you! Mamma says come at 
once !” 

She was very pale, and her eyes, filled with 
an expression of mute, agonized appeal, seemed 
to have retreated deeper into her face, that was 
of the hue of ivory. Fabien was conscious of a 
great wave of tenderness and infinite compassion 
surging through his being. He would have 
wished to press her to his heart, and speak to her 
those words of comfort which, in* our moments 
of great moral suffering, afford us a sensation of 
warmth and cheer. But that was a privilege to 
which he could lay no* claim. He advanced a 
step, as if in response to her unuttered appeal. 
But Edmee spoke; he stopped. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


219 


‘‘Yes, we will go,” she said, placing the poor 
child’s arm in hers. “But first we must make 
sure that we shall find a connecting train at 
Paris ; otherwise we may as well wait until the 
morning. ’ ’ 

The time-table was brought. Juliette fever- 
ishly turned the leaves, and was unable to find 
what she wanted. Fontenoy gently took it from 
her hands, and conducted the search more 
methodically. 

“Here it is,” said he. “You can start from 
here an hour from now, and travel express to 
Paris. At Paris you will find a way-train that 
will bring you to the Clocher at five o’clock in 
the morning. It is not very pleasant, but if you 
wait until the next train, you won’t reach there 
until one in the afternoon. Elect which you 
prefer. ’ ’ 

“Oh, aunt!” said Juliette, in a low voice, 
with an accent of entreaty that went to all their 
hearts, “I beseech you!” 

Edmee kissed her and rang to have things 
made ready for their departure. Forest and 
Fabien came forward to take their leave. 

“No; stay, won’t you, please?” said Juliette, 
in a coaxing tone; “stay and talk to me. I 
can’t bear to be alone ; the minutes appear to me 
so long — and so short!”' 

“We will escort you to the station, ’ ’ said For- 
est. 

Two small valises were presently brought 
down, together with the rugs and wraps. 
Twenty minutes after the receipt of the telegram 


220 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


which had disturbed the tranquillity of the peace- 
ful household, they were ready for departure. 
Fontenoy presented himself in traveling costume. 

“Are you going?” said Edmee, in surprise. . 

“Did you think I would let you travel unat- 
tended, and by night? I am going to Paris, to 
see you aboard the train, and if you desire it I 
will accompany you the entire distance.” 

“No, no,” his wife replied, gratified at heart 
by his manifestation of thoughtfulness; “you 
need go no further than Paris. The Clocher is 
not a roomy house ; we shall cause them enough 
inconvenience there as it is. And then, too, 
that abode of sickness is no fit dwelling-place 
for you.” 

“As you please,” said he. “But let us be off.” 

By a tacit understanding. Forest took Fonte- 
noy with him in his carriage, and left Fabien to 
accompany Edmee and Juliette. The night was 
cool, the moon was setting in the melancholy of 
her last quarter, when the light she dispenses is 
so dim and cheerless. The horses took a lively 
gait, the woods sped by to right and left with 
a wholesome odor of birch-bark. A shiver of 
dread passed through Fabien’s frame. Was the 
dream of his heart, which that very evening had 
seemed almost within his grasp, about to take 
flight for those regions of inky blackness above, 
together with so many other vanished joys of 
youth whose regret haunts us in our riper years 
when they are lost to us forever? 

Juliette said nothing. Muffled in her cloak, a 
shawl spread over her lap, she was thinking with 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


221 


painful intensity of that neglected mother who 
had summoned her to her bedside, perhaps to 
render the last filial offices ; and the days of her 
youth and girlhood passed before her in review 
like the changing hues of a kaleidoscope. 

She had been a kind and loving mother in the 
past. She had always been kind, only she had 
become something of a misanthrope; she pre- 
ferred a life of solitude. It was not Juliette’s 
fault if her gayety, bright and happy as a young 
bird’s, was uncongenial to the sick woman. But 
neither, on the other hand, was it the fault of 
the sick woman. Why was that dispatch so 
brief and unsatisfactory? Was she in such straits 
that her attendant had not dared to tell her rela- 
tives all the truth? What would they find on 
reaching their destination? 

What! could that be the station? The carriage 
stopped. Fabien jumped down and gave his 
hand, first to Edmee, then to Juliette. She 
seemed to be unconscious of his attention. He 
conducted her to the platform, for the train was 
already in sight. As it rolled into the station 
she turned on him her pretty face, to which the 
night air had lent a heightened color; the eyes 
shone with a luster all the brighter for their 
tears. 

“Monsieur Malvois,” she said, in a gentle 
voice, “I am very glad that I had tha<t conver- 
sation with you this evening about my poor 
mamma. You will not now believe that the in- 
telligence of her illness was required to make me 
think of her.” 


222 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


“And for my part, mademoiselle, I thank yon 
for it with all my heart,” he replied, giving her 
his hand. 

The train passed them,-and drew up alongside 
the platform with a discordant creaking of the 
brakes. The doors were thrown open, the pas- 
sengers took their places, and it was off again. 
Forest and Fabien returned to where their car- 
riage was awaiting them. 

. “Life has strange vicissitudes,” said Malvois. 
‘ ‘ Only an hour ago we were so tranquil — so happy, 
I might almost say; and now it seems as if a 
tempest had passed over our heads.” 

“Life would not be life were matters other- 
wise, my young friend,” the old philosopher re- 
plied. 


XVI. 

Fontenoy, in accordance with his expressed 
intention, escorted his wife and niece to the Or- 
leans station. The accommodation train, made 
up chiefly of third-class carriages, with its load 
of unwashed passengers, its sleepy guards, and 
general laxity of discipline, was totally unlike 
the smart expresses by which he was accustomed 
to travel. In this unfamiliar state of affairs, he 
placed the two women in a compartment and 
took measures to secure their privacy in it dur- 
ing their journey. Then the locomotive began 
to pant and wheeze, the train crawled slowly 
past him along the rails, and when at last he 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


223 


found himself alone upon the platform it seemed 
to him as if they were bound for some distant 
land from which it was by no means certain that 
they would ever return. 

A strange feeling, a compound of nostalgia 
and restlessness, took possession of him. He 
tried to shake it off, and hailed a cab to take him 
to his own abode. As it was too late to think of 
returning to La Tremblaye, there was nothing 
for him to do but seek the shelter of his own 
house, away at the other end of the city. 

The great mansion appeared to him horribly 
lonely and gloomy. The concierge, aroused from 
his first sleep, was disinclined to let him in, and 
while he was lighting a candle to conduct his 
master up the stairs Fontenoy could hear him 
grumbling to his wife that “the least people 
could do when they came home at such an hour 
of the night was to give notice in advance.” 

Gilbert’s bedroom smelled close and stuffy. It 
had that smell which is peculiar to rooms that 
have been for a while disused — an odor made ux^ 
of stale perfumes, of clothing and curtains that 
would be the better for a good shaking ; of things 
overlooked in the hurry of departure — a partic- 
ularly depressing odor, whose property it is to 
evoke melancholy memories. He threw open 
the window and inhaled a deep draught of fresh 
air. 

Down yonder, beneath the winking stars, lay 
La Beauce, toward which the train was slowly 
creeping onward across the slumbering fields. 
Why had Edmee forbidden him to accompany 


224 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


them? It would have been infinitely better, and 
he would have been more easy. 

Easy? But what reason had he for being un- 
easy? Do not people travel by rail every day 
without anything happening them? As for Ed- 
mee’s distress at finding her sister dying — dead, 
perhaps — the presence of a husband would have 
been unavailing to alleviate it; on the other 
hand, it would have been a source of additional 
trouble and confusion. Edmee had acted sensi- 
bly in declining his offer. 

He closed the window and turned to go to his 
bed, which was always kept made up in readi- 
ness to meet an emergency like the present. As 
he crossed the floor his glance lighted on the 
secretary from which his wife had extracted the 
drawer of letters. 

“I am very glad that I thanked Edmee for 
what she did for me that day,” thought Fon- 
tenoy. ‘H put it off too long. I wonder why I 
did not do it at once. She must have thought 
me ungrateful, and yet I am not ungrateful. ’ ’ 

A twinge of conscience put an end to his solil- 
oquy. Could he put his hand upon his heart and 
assure himself that he was not ungrateful? He 
had certainly proved himeslf to be so. 

“She is deserving of better things,” he con- 
tinued, remorseful in his loneliness. “She be- 
haved admirably. She must have suspected 
what the contents of those letters were, and the 
delicacy she displayed in deceiving me and mak- 
ing me believe she was ignorant was as rare as 
it was noble. I had no idea that she possessed 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


225 


such strength of character, such command ot 
self. It seems to me that in the past — ” 

Here Fontenoy lost himself in a maze of re^ 
trospective meditations. What Edmee had been 
in the past, in those recollections now suddenly 
summoned back to life after having been allowed 
to lie so long dormant, was an amiable and lively 
young creature, whose most conspicuous char- 
acteristics were perfect uprightness and incon- 
testable goodness of heart; a slightly indolent 
understanding, a certain degree of vagueness in 
her ideas, together with a strong inclination to 
accept accomplished facts and make the best of 
everything. Such were the qualities that, 
touched by the golden rays of the honeymoon, 
had gone to make up the charming and refined 
home where, during the succeeding years, Fon- 
tenoy had enjoyed domestic peace undarkened 
by a cloud. 

Suddenly he recalled to mind the conversation 
that they had had when, on the occasion of their 
conference relative to Juliette’s marriage, Mme. 
Fontenoy had made that statement which so sur- 
prised her husband. 

“I have not been happy,” she had said. And 
Gilbert’s refiection at the time had been that if 
his wife should take it in her head to consider 
that she was not appreciated she would become 
a horrible nuisance. 

And behold, his forebodings had been ground- 
less ; she had not manifested the slightest indi- 
cation of becoming a nuisance. That startling 
statement, which he had dreaded to see followed 


226 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


by open hostilities, had been succeeded by no 
warlike demonstration. Edmee had preserved 
the even tenor of her way, and continued to be, 
as she had always been, affectionately solicitous 
for his welfare, measured in speech, decent in 
action; while he had occasionally snubbed her, 
with that seasoning of ill-humor which, in many 
men, seems to be the imprescriptible prerogative 
of marital authority. She had not protested 
either by words or deeds. But, for some time 
past she had been growing prettier and prettier. 

Fontenoy had extinguished his candle. In the 
bed that was strange to him for having been of 
late unused, that was one moment too hot and 
the next too cold, the fiend Insomnia had taken 
up his abode ; and among the fantastic notions 
that an abnormal lucidity of thought and a pre • 
ternaturally active memory were continually 
engendering, this consideration, which had never 
occurred to him before, rose to his mind : Might 
it not be that all those charms which, in those 
recent days, had made Edmee so attractive — her 
renascent beauty, her evenness of temper, the 
tolerant indulgence which she manifested toward 
himself — might it not be that all these things 
announced the dawn of a new era, the rise of a 
new star in the heart of her whom her husband 
had guarded so carelessly ^ — in other words, might 
not Edmee be in love? 

It is due to Fontenoy to state that, in this 
dubitative frame of mind, he did not admit the 
possibility of transgression ; he had too genuine 
an esteem for his wife, and too exalted an opin- 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


227 


ion of his own importance, to harbor degrading 
and injurious suspicions. Edmee, so far as he 
was aware, had never told a falsehood ; lying is 
not an art that is acquired in a day, and her 
eyes, the eyes of an upright woman, had never 
been averted. Had never been averted? Had he 
not of late more than once seen them sink at his 
approach, while the pretty face was overspread 
with something very like a blush? 

“Can she be in love with some one?” Fonte- 
noy asked himself. The doubt that harassed his 
mind immediately suggested the second ques- 
tion: “With whom is she in love? Who occu- 
pies her thoughts? Who is there whom she 
manifests a pleasure in meeting?” 

The husband’s imagination did not have to go 
far afield. There was but one man who occupied 
her thoughts ; one person had been singled out 
by her to be graced with a favor beyond the 
ordinary, while at the same time she deferred 
acceding to the wishes of that same man. Edmee 
had desired that Juliette’s marriage should not 
be decided on precipitately. What could be more 
manifest? It was Fabien whom she loved. 

“And it was I,” reflected Fontenoy, at three 
o’clock in the morning, as wide awake as a nest 
of little mice, “it was I who was such a donkey 
as to introduce him to the house !” 

Greatly disconcerted by his discovery, and yet 
more by that last and most disagreeable reflec- 
tion of his, he promised himself that next day he 
would go to work in earnest to fathom a matter 
that concerned him so nearly. With a candor 


228 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


that disarmed criticism, however, he admitted 
to himself that he had deserved his fate. 

“I should have kept my eyes open,” he said. 
‘‘The truth is, I neglected her too much!” 


XYIT. 

It was about three o’clock when, on the fol- 
lowing day, Fontenoy entered the Fremonts’ 
grounds. Postponing tfie various affairs of busi- 
ness or pleasure that he had proposed to attend 
to while in Paris, he had returned by the morn- 
ing train, pale and haggard after a sleepless 
night of care and torturing doubt. 

The first person whom he set eyes on was Mme. 
Verseley, promenading under the lindens in com- 
pany with D’Argilesse. Attired in a miraculous 
conception of a gown, a gown that seemed to 
protest, in the meanest of its frills and flounces, 
its unworthiness to drape so ravishing a form, 
the fair Undine appeared even more captivating 
than usual. But Fontenoy took no thought of 
Mme. Verseley, nor of M. d’Argilesse, either. 
He had not even eyes for the twin diamonds that 
glittered on the corsage of the one, or the pink 
that decorated the jacket of the other ; it was for 
Fabien, Fabien only that he was looking. Since 
Edmee was at the Clocher, and common decency 
forbade the young man to go to meet her there 
— here he perceived that since the day before he 
had utterly forgotten his sister-in-law’s existence 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


229 


— it was to Fabien’s countenance that he must 
look to learn the truth, disagreeable or comfort- 
ing as the case might be. He had worked him- 
self up to such a pitch that the idea of his find- 
ing any comfort there appeared to him absurd. 

Fabien was there. He was playing tennis with 
surprising ardor ; like a man whose object it was 
to deaden reflection, thought Fontenoy. Mague- 
lonne returned him his ball in a manner worthy 
of so expert a player, and so eligible a bachelor. 
And who was that playing in Maguelonne’s 
field? Why, who should it be but little Des- 
crosses, who, if he excelled in leading the cotill- 
ion, made but an indifferent partner at tennis, 
owing to a very pronounced myopia, which he 
stoutly denied, but which led him into innumer- 
able scrapes and blunders whenever he engaged 
in those sports that we call athletic. 

And while the young people were thus hila- 
riously pursuing their obstreperous revels, Fon- 
tenoy ’s soul was steeped in the horrific black- 
ness of despondency and doubt. Mme. Fremont, 
informed by public rumor — or, in other words, 
by her cook, on her return from market — of the 
sudden departure of Edmee and her niece, came 
to Grilbert with condolences which, though trite 
and commonplace as a public inn, were, for all 
that, none the less sincere. 

“Any news?” shouted Fabien, as he delivered 
the ball with a mighty effort of his biceps. 

Fontenoy looked him directly in the face. The 
face of mortal man is deceitful and not to be 
relied on, as philosophers well know. Fabien’s 


230 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


attested the truth of the statement, for it dis- 
played the placid enjoyment that is afforded by 
physical exercise used moderately and not car- 
ried to excess. 

“I shall never learn anything in this way, ” 
said Gilbert to himself; “I must wait and see 
them together. Really, I think I am making a 
fool of myself! But then I have never been 
jealous — ” 

The reflection came to an abrupt end. Mme. 
Verseley passed him, leaning on D’Argilesse’s 
arm, so near that the hem of her gown brushed 
his boot. Had he not been jealous of that 
woman? so jealous that he was made ill? Yes, 
but that jealousy had nothing in common with 
the demon that was making mince-meat of the 
heart of Edmee’s husband at the present moment. 

And suddenly a great truth was let in upon 
his mind : that a man may be jealous of a wo- 
man — furiously, insanely jealous, even to the 
point of suicide — but that when that woman is 
his wife the sentiment assumes a different nature, 
is infinitely more profound, more intense ; that, ii3 
the first case, wounded self-love may make the 
victim writhe and shriek under the ignoble tor- 
ture, but in the second the cords of honor vibrate 
in quite a different manner, a hundred times no- 
bler and more elevated, and, consequently, a 
hundred times more painful. 

When Fabien had an opportunity to leave the 
game, he came up to Fontenoy, racket in hand, 
and asked him some questions concerning tho 
travelers. As he could not discriminate between 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


231 


the two ladies, Gilbert was none the wiser for 
these questions. He answered them more briefly 
than he would have done twenty-four hours 
earlier, and Malvois, not wishing to appear im- 
portunate, returned to the fleld. 

D’Argilesse, in turn, came forward to make 
inquiries. This time Fontenoy could not help 
noticing the pink in the gentleman’s buttonhole, 
but it caused no resentful feeling. 

“Come along,” the double-faced friend said 
to him, “come and have a look at Millot’s mare; 
she is here. The hurdles have been set up at 
the far end of the park. She is a sulky brute ; 
you can never tell whether she is going to mind 
you, or break your neck. So far she has been 
tractable, however. I never saw a horse jump 
as she does ! She is a bird !” 

“Who is riding her?” asked Fontenoy. 

“I am for the present. Dormant has her in 
his stable, you know ; but I prefer to ride her 
here because she is less nervous when alone.” 

Fontenoy had follov/ed D’Argilesse. Presently 
they came to a broad expanse of turf where a 
track had been laid out with obstacles of various 
kinds; the hedge, the water- jump, the earthen 
wall — all were there, thanks to the liberality of 
kind-hearted M. Fremont, who had not hesitated 
to lay waste his pretty lawn to procure an ad- 
ditional pleasure for his guests. 

Coralie — for such was the mare’s euphonious 
name — was a showy thoroughbred. Under her 
thin skin the eye could trace the network of 
veins, which, at the faintest suspicion of alarm, 


232 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


distended and stood out in knots and bunches. 
The head was small and well-shaped, with great 
breadth of forehead, but the eye had not that 
kindly, frank expression that is usually met with 
in animals of her race; the stealthy look re- 
minded one of certain human beings to whom 
we generally give as wide a berth as possible. 
But, notwithstanding that, the general appear- 
ance of the creature, her beauteous chestnut 
coat, over which the light played in rippling 
waves with every movement of her skin beneath, 
her clean-cut legs, fine and supple as springs of 
steel, announced that she was no ordinary beast. 

At sight of a stranger, she laid back her ears 
and sniffed the air suspiciously. Fontenoy went 
toward her, extending his open hand. 

“Don’t touch her, sir,” said the groom, who 
was holding her by the halter. “She shies for 
just nothing at all; she might hurt you.” 

But Fontenoy knew what he was about. By 
using soothing words he succeeded in getting up 
alongside Coralie, and again and again patted 
her on the neck. She suffered his caresses, al- 
though her veins were swollen nearly to the 
bursting point. Gilbert, when satisfied, stepped 
back a little way. 

“And now look out ; I’m going to mount her, ’ ’ 
said D’Argilesse. “She has no great love for 
me, I think, ?)ut I don’t mind that. I am not 
afraid of men, and it’s not likely that I’m going 
to be scared by a horse.” 

Coralie shifted her ground, avoiding the ap- 
proaches of her rider with great dexterity. He 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


233 


tried to take her off her guard, but to no purpose ; 
she appeared to have an instinctive perception 
of his presence even when she could not see him. 
But he was no less cunning than she. With 
feline precautions he slipped up to her, and was 
on her back before she knew it. 

The mare reared and plunged, kicking out 
furiously to right and left, but only had her labor 
for her pains. D’Argilesse was a consummate 
horseman, and thwarted all her attempts to 
throw him. Then, as if accepting the inevitable, 
champing the bit, and casting sidelong glances 
at Fontenoy and the groom, she came down to 
her gait. 

‘‘If I were in your place, I shouldn’t feel easy, ” 
said Gilbert; “that brute has an ugl}^ look out 
of her eyes.” 

The words had hardly passed his lips when 
Coralie made an attempt to throw her ride over 
her head. Failing in that, she immediately re- 
versed proceedings and reared with such violence 
that her hind legs gave way under her and she 
came near falling. The two witnesses to the 
performance darted forward and caught her by 
the bit. She gave in, and came down on her 
forefeet, her head down, looking around her wick- 
edly, trembling from head to tail and drenched 
with sweat. 

“If I were you I would give it up,” Fonte- 
noy reiterated. 

“Not I!” replied D’Argilesse, with an un- 
daunted air. 

His first care was to administer to Coralie 


234 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


a well-deserved correction. She was mad with 
rage, and behaved as if possessed with a demon, 
but calmed down somewhat as soon as she was 
convinced of the futility of her efforts to rid her- 
self of her tormentor ; her chest and neck were 
flecked with great flakes of froth, but she was 
comparatively tranquil, except that she was ob- 
stinate in refusing to pursue a straightforward 
course. 

“Is that her usual gait?” Fontenoy asked, 
during a momentary pause in the performance. 
“You’ll excuse me for saying so, but it gives 
her a little the appearance of a crab.” 

“I had her out a few days ago, and we trav- 
eled five miles in that style,” D’Argilesse replied. 
“As you may imagine, it took us quite a while 
to cover the distance, but coming back she was 
gentle as a lamb.” 

Perhaps Coralie understood him, and resented 
the allusion ; at all events she commenced her old 
tricks again, and thereby secured for herself a 
second chastisement. The lesson, this time, 
seemed to be effectual, for she gave up the con- 
test ; thoroughly subdued, she went at the obsta- 
cles and took them with great docility, jumping 
as long as she was required to do so without the 
persuasion of the whip. 

When he had had enough of the exercise, 
D’Argilesse walked the mare up to where Gilbert 
was standing, watching horse and rider with 
unbounded admiration. 

“You see that I made her mind, at last!” he 
said. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


“I wouldn’t trust her,” Fontenoy replied, 
while his friend was dismounting; “such a foxy 
brute is bound to play her rider some nasty trick 
in the end.” 

“It is immaterial to me what she does, so long 
as I am not the sufferer by her temper,” replied 
D’Argilesse, lighting a cigar; “her owner can 
attend to that. I shall send her back to him at 
the end of the week. Such an animal is only fit 
for the hurdles ; she is no good for pleasure rid- 
ing. She will probably be the death of a jockey 
or two before she kills herself. But that’s their 
lookout.” 

“Couldn’t you ride her more safely in com- 
pany?” Fontenoy asked. “You were talking 
of getting up a party, weren’t you?” 

“She is generally civil enough in company, 
when she and the other horses are on good terms. 
We might try it.” 

As they were returning to the tennis ground 
they met Mme. Verseley, accompanied by little 
Descrosses, who was carrying on an outrageous 
flirtation with the lady, half in jest, half in ear- 
nest ; in either case, the spectacle he afforded was 
a sufficiently diverting one. 

“Well!” said she, planting herself in front 
of the two gentlemen in the middle of the path, 
“are you going to ride that mare, or are you 
not? We should like to have an opportunity to 
see what is going on! You come and secrete 
yourself here in the fastnesses of the park, where 
we are not allowed to penetrate. Who knows 
what nefarious practices you are pursuing? And 


236 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


here is M. Descrosses aching with the desire to 
try his hand. ’ ’ 

‘‘Oh! so far as I am concerned, madame,” 
the young man modestly replied, “I ride noth- 
ing bigger than a Newfoundland dog, and that 
only of a Sunday. ’ ’ 

D’Argilesse smiled disdainfully. He was not 
afraid of that rival. 


XVIII. 

It was in the early light of a morning un- 
usually cool for the time of year that the train 
which carried Edmee and her niece stopped at 
the shabby little station; open to all the winds 
that blew. The sun had not yet risen, and nature 
wore that cheerless aspect that she presents just 
previous to his appearance. Juliette, whose 
slumbers during the night had been confined to 
a few brief naps, was shivering in the raw air. 
Her aunt tenderly wrapped a small shawl about 
her, and leaving their slender baggage at the 
station, they directed their steps toward the 
Clocher, which was distant only a scant half 
mile. 

The house was a tall, ugly and gloomy struct- 
ure. The single cypress, object of Juliette’s sar- 
casm, reared its slender form upon the grayish 
atmosphere like a huge wax candle that had 
been left unlighted and that some jovial cobbler 
had amused himself by enduing with a coat of 
blacking. Quickening their steps, the two wo- 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


237 


men came to the gate and rang. While waiting 
the young girl raised her anxious eyes to a win- 
dow that she knew well. 

“Oh, aunt, just look!” said she, grasping the 
other’s arm, “there is a light in mamma’s room !” 

She was so pale that, had it not been for the 
feverish light in her eyes, she would have been 
like a corpse. Mme. Fontenoy was thinking 
what she could say to comfort her, when the 
house door opened to give passage to a servant- 
girl carrying a large bunch of keys ; and at the 
same moment the shutters of the room above 
were thrown back by an ungentle, hand. They 
crashed against the wall with a report that elic- 
ited a response from all the poultry in the barn- 
yard. 

“Ah!” Juliette softly exclaimed, with a sigh 
of relief that went to the heart of her fond aunt. 

“Madame is better,” the girl volunteered, as 
she opened the gate for them; “madame will be 
rejoiced to see you, ladies. She has had a fairly 
good night, but we thought yesterday that we 
v^ere surely going to lose her. Will you please 
v/alk upstairs, ladies.” 

J uliette was already half way up the stairs ; at 
the threshold she stopped, unable to go further. 
Her fears had overtaxed her strength, and now 
the reaction manifested itself by a sensation of 
collapse. Edmee came up and gently pushed 
her before her into the room, the door of which 
was open. 

Mme. Chassagny was reposing on a low and 
extremely plain bed, her head supported by pil- 


238 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


lows ; her face was yellow as old parchment, and 
she was thin as a person could well be and live. 
But there was great vitality in her eyes, and they 
were animated by a strangely intense expression. 
Juliette ran to the bedside and threw her arms 
about her, murmuring: “Mamma! mamma!” 

“I am pretty well to-day,” said the sick wo- 
man, in a voice so faint that it seemed to come 
from some distant region. “The worst is past, 
my dear daughter, and I think that I shall go on 
improving. But yesterday I thought that my 
minutes were numbered. I was distressed at 
the thought of departing without a last embrace 
from you.” 

“Mamma! mamma!” repeated Juliette, un- 
consciously pressing Mme. Chassagny’s hand 
until it became cold as ice. She did not cry, 
knowing how harmful emotion of any kind 
would be to the enfeebled sufferer, but the stress 
that she imposed on herself in holding back her 
tears caused her slight form to tremble like a leaf. 

“Well, my dear Cecile,” Edmee gently said, 
“we are very glad we came, "since we have the 
pleasure of seeing you getting on so well. You 
are too lonely here ; you live too much by your- 
self. We must try to put a stop to that. In the 
meantime, don’t you think it would be well to 
send your little girl off to bed? She is greatly 
in need of sleep.” 

Juliette demurred. She was not the least bit 
sleepy ; she would rather .stay with her mother. 
But Mme. Fontenoy was inflexible, and the 
young girl finally yielded. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


239 


Edmee was not conscious of fatigue ; she still 
had a reserve of the nervous energy that had 
sustained her during the night, and having a 
host of questions to ask and answer, the two sis- 
ters conversed together for a long time, with 
occasional pauses to husband the sick woman’s 
strength. Gradually, by bits and snatches, Mme. 
Fontenoy acquired a knowledge of the occur- 
rences of the past six weeks. 

Mme. Chassagny, feeling that the illness with 
. which she was threatened would be serious, had 
made haste to send away her daughter, partly 
that the girl might be spared the spectacle of 
her sufferings, still more, perhaps, from that 
sentiment which induces in strong and self-reli- 
ant natures the imperious desire for solitude 
when they feel that physical pain is imminent. 
Aware that her condition was becoming worse 
from day to day, she obstinately refused to speak 
of it, and also enjoined on her household not to 
mention it to any one except the doctor. And 
(hen a crisis had ensued, so violent and so long- 
orotracted that the patient was deprived of all 
her remaining strength, and the thought that she 
was to die without beholding her child again 
seemed to her more than she could endure ; then 
it was that she had sent the telegram, in the 
faint hope that it might not be too late. 

“You can form no idea,” she said to her sister, 
“of what my agony was between the moment 
when I dispatched it and that when the answer 
came, last night at one o’clock. I reproached 
myself bitterly for having delayed so long, and 


240 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


thus deprived myself of the chance of seeing you 
once more. When your answer reached me it 
acted like a cordial ; my pains left me, I fell into 
a sound sleep, and since my wakening I have not 
been conscious of suJffering.” 

Great caution had still to be observed, how- 
ever. Edmee thoughtfully declared that she had 
need of rest, and retired to her room in the midst 
of a blaze of light with which the fierce August 
sun inundated the whole house. 

When she returned to her sister, J uliette was 
also there. Seated on a low chair, silent and 
motionless, a well-behaved child, she watched 
her mother with eyes full of a tender delight that 
no one had ever witnessed there before. It 
seemed as if she had then for the first time dis- 
covered in her attractions hitherto unnoticed. 
She scrutinized the lean, yellow face, and ap- 
peared to read on it characters which disclosed 
to her a multitude of strange and unknown 
things. 

At sight of her aunt she gave a little friendly 
nod and remained seated, like a person who is 
quite comfortably situated, and does not care by 
moving to disturb the serenity of his repose. In 
this manner the day passed slowly away, with 
no other incident than the visit of the doctor, 
who declared himself satisfied with his patient’s 
condition. The sun, as Juliette had one day 
playfully remarked, peeped in turn into all the 
rooms of the house, being deterred therefrom by 
no intervening obstacles; he illuminated one 
front at evening as he had shone on the other in 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


241 


the morning, and finally declined on the level 
horizon in a vaporous haze of gold and crimson. 

Alone in the garden, where a few sickly cur- 
rant and gooseberry-bushes indicated the course 
of the straggling, grass-grov/n paths, Juliette 
contemplated the monotonous landscape, over 
which the infiuence of the hour cast for a brief 
moment an evanescent glamour; the light, still 
lingering in the zenith, descended with a mel- 
lower radiance, imparting strange forms to fa- 
miliar objects, the earth exhaled a wholesome 
odor, the wide plain stretched away far as the 
eye could reach, dotted here and there with in- 
distinct spots of deeper darkness, a house, a 
church, a clump of woods. Gradually the illu- 
minated circle closed in around the place where 
the young girl stood, while the grayish, vapor- 
ous horizon seemed to recede further and further 
into the shadowy distance, until it was like 
some vast, boundless ocean. She looked at the 
spectacle with an impression of having never 
seen it before, and perhaps she had not, with her 
inner vision. 

“It is horribly depressing,” she said to her- 
self, “and yet it is fine — fine as a beautiful wo- 
man in her shroud !” 

She shivered slightly, and slowly retraced her 
steps toward the house. 

During the last twenty-four hours new lights 
had dawned on Juliette. Fabien's words had 
produced a profound impression on her. She 
had never suspected the possibility of such in- 
tense filial affection existing in a man grown, 


242 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


especially for a mother who had been so long 
dead. The young girls whom she knew loved 
their mammas after a fashion ; the young men 
loved nothing at all — at least, they said they 
didn’t. And here was Fabien opening for her 
a window of his soul that afforded her glimpses 
of a garden full of fruits and flowers that were 
unknown to her. 

Until the present time she had said to herself: 
‘‘Must I marry this gentleman? Is he worthy, 
does he deserve that I should make him the gift 
of my precious little person?” 

Now she asked herself : “What must he think 
of me? He knows that I am here by this time. 
Perhaps he thinks that I am making myself ser- 
viceable, and yet my services amount to nothing 
— less than nothing. I have not known how to 
take the place that was mine of right. They are 
hirelings, servants, who nurse my mother; I am 
fit for nothing but to look at her and smile when 
she looks at me. What does that avail?” 

A profound melancholy took possession of Ju- 
liette. She felt that tears would be a relief and 
comfort. The fields were now gray and silent, 
v/rapped in a repose that was instinct with solem- 
nity. The eye refused to penetrate that waste of 
dull neutral shadows where form had ceased to 
exist, and which yet did not excite the idea of 
voidness. The silence and immensity were cal- 
culated to inspire thoughts of a solemn nature. 
Juliette let her arms fall to her side in discour- 
agement. 

“I know nothing of life,” she said to herself. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


243 


“The life of others is a mystery to me. Hid 
within the bosom of the shadows that surround 
me are hundreds, thousands of men and women 
who have their joys and sorrows. I cannot see 
them, I do not know them ; and as little as I 
know of them, it is as much as the little that I 
know of my own mother! I am a spoiled child 
— yes, a spoiled child. And if she had died to- 
night before we reached here?” 

A great sob shook the slight form that was look- 
ing out on the dim horizon, now so close at hand. 

“If she had died, I should never, never have 
forgiven myself. There is no forgiving one’s 
self for a calamity that is of one’s own causing 
— and the blame would have been all mine. I 
ought never to have left her.” 

“Juliette,” called Mme. Fontenoy, “where 
are you, out there in the darkness?” 

“Here I am,” she answered, hastily wiping 
away her tears. 

Mme. Chassagny fell asleep early in the even- 
ing. Succeeding her recent sufferings, this re- 
cuperative slumber was a veritable benediction 
to her. Edmee and her niece, each in her own 
chamber, also wooed the drowsy god. To Mme. 
Fontenoy he was propitious, but to Juliette coy, 
who long remained awake, revolving grave 
thoughts within her mind. 

She had been wanting in filial duty. That was 
not an unpardonable fault, so long as it was the 
result of ignorance ; but now that excuse had 
ceased to be available. She would not again 
leave her mother. Aunt Edmee should return 


244 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


alone to La Tremblay e’s pleasant glades, where 
the poplars whispered to one another all the day 
and night, where the pretty brook ran chattering 
over its bed of weeds. She would remain at 
the Clocher, with the pigeon-house as her de- 
fense against the rays of the scorching sun, in 
the midst of the great lonely plain, stripped of 
its harvests. Aunt Edmee might go back to 
the land of mirth and jollity, to the croquet, 
the tennis and the little dances of the Fremonts ; 
she, Juliette, would devote her days to reading 
to her convalescent mother, and would set to 
work to embroider a great lambrequin for that 
hideous chimney-piece in the spare bedroom. 

‘‘Oh, that horrid chimney!” she groaned, “if 
it only wouldn’t smoke! I wonder if it smokes 
as bad as ever? Perhaps mamma will have a 
cowl put on it — a shfet-iron cowl ; that answers 
very well, sometimes — not always.” 

It was doubtless not a very attractive prospect, 
that of spending her summer at the Clocher. 
But it was not that which made Juliette so de- 
spondent. What are two or three months? Un- 
derlying her melancholy — for she had considered 
in all its bearings the sacrifice which she was 
imposing on herself — was something else, some- 
thing that she hesitated to acknowledge even to 
herself. If she remained at the Clocher, she 
would not see Pabien Malvois until her return 
to Paris ; and Heaven alone could tell when that 
would be ! 

“As if I cared for that!” she said to herself, 
with a fine assumption of indifference. 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


2 


Bat Juliette was frank with herself. Sho 
might subject herself to self- torment, but she 
would not stoop to self-deceit. And she made 
the mental admission that croquet, lawn tennis, 
Maguelonne and La Tremblaye were of very 
small account compared with the reflection that 
she was to be debarred for a long time from see- 
ing Fabien Malvois, who only twenty-four hours 
before, almost to the minute, had been talking to 
her of his mother with such repressed emotion. 

“Well,” she said to herself, “if I feel so bad 
over it, I suppose it must be because I am in 
love with him. Yes, certainly, I love him! 
Isn’t it too bad, just at the moment when I am 
not going to see him any more! And if he 
should cease to care for me during the time while 
I’m away ! That Maguelonne is a terribly enter- 
prising girl. Suppose she should set her cap for 
him? She’s terribly enterprising, that’s true 
enough; but then, M. Fabien appears to be a 
pretty wide-awake sort of young man — a little 
precipitate, at times. Still, people don’t marry 
precipitately. Who knows? Perhaps he’ll wait 
until we’re back at Paris before making up his 
mind? Come, Juliette, my girl, why can’t you 
be honest? You know very well that he loves 
you, too — ” 

Juliette’s ideas were beginning to be some- 
what foggy. She tried to recapitulate her con- 
clusions: Aunt Edmee was to go home alone; 
at the beginning of v/inter she would — 

At this juncture Juliette’s consciousness de- 
serted her. 


246 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


XIX. 

The following day Edmee wrote a longish let- 
ter to her husband, whose anxiety she had al- 
ready relieved by a telegram. She gave excel- 
lent tidings of Mme. Chassagny, although she 
could not specify the precise day when she 
would be able to leave for home ; added various 
directions for the government of the household 
at La Tremblaye, and concluded with these 
words : 

“You may say to M. Malvois that our journey 
is far from being detrimental to his interests.” 

Fontenoy puzzled his wits for a long time to 
get at the true inwardness of this sentence. 
Many small details of no importance, considered 
separately, were grouped together in his mem- 
ory ; a certain hand-kissing one day when he 
had come in upon his wife and Fabien alone to- 
gether ; smiles, looks of pleasure when they met, 
and so forth. 

Still, as Fontenoy was not a blockhead, he 
finally became convinced that the words could 
have no significance that concerned him, person- 
ally ; for there was no reason why Edmee should 
not write to the young man direct if she had 
anything to say to him. 

At this point the demon of jealousy was near 
undoing the good work that reason had com- 
menced. A woman of prudence does Hot write; 
she makes others the bearers of her messages. 

It was now Labiche, instead of Octave Feuil- 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


247 


let who suddenly invaded Fontenoy’s memory. 
No method that has been, is, or ever will be em- 
ployed by womankind to conduct a secret corre- 
spondence has escaped the observation of the 
great philosopher of La Beauce, and he has set 
them all forth for the edification of an admiring 
world. ‘‘Celemare le Bien-Aime” is an authority 
of its kind, to say nothing of the remainder of 
his ten volumes of plays. 

Gilbert blushed for himself, and laughed, with 
a faint laugh of shame and vexation. Really, 
he must be beginning to have softening of the 
brain to entertain such notions ! What resem- 
blance could a sane man discover between Mme. 
Fontenoy and one of Labiche’s heroines? He 
would dismiss the subject from his thoughts. 
To make his cure effectual, he went to pay a 
visit to Comte Forest. He said to himself that 
he would probably find Fabien there, and the 
sight of the loyal young man would remove 
the last of his doubts. 

Between those two, one a life-long friend, the 
other a friend of more recent date, but so frank, 
so like himself in all respects ; under those can- 
did looks that met his own so fearlessly, Fonte- 
noy felt a decided revival of confidence. Mas- 
culine friendship, in its strength and honest 
simplicity, is one of the best comforters that a 
spul in distress can have. Feminine tenderness 
is a precious consolation in sorrow and affliction, 
but when the mind is racked with uncertainty 
and doubt, the affection borne each other by men 
of feeling is a surer reliance. Forest and Fabien, 


248 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


each in his own degree, felt that Fontenoy was 
no longer the happy and tranquil man he had 
been, and they both, by a tacit accord, set to 
work with soothing generalities to bind up the 
secret wound that he would not expose to them. 

After two hours of a conversation, in which 
nothing was said that Gilbert could apply directly 
to himself, but which left him with renewed and 
reinvigorated faith in the honor of men, and 
the virtue of good women, he made up his mind 
to communicate to Malvois the words of Edmee’s 
letter that had so troubled him. 

The thankful look he received in return was 
the surest evidence he could have of his young 
relative’s sentiments; it was the look of a lover 
who has nothing to conceal. 

“I was beginning to hope,” said Fabien. 
‘‘And the bad news that broke up our little 
gathering the other evening was doubly inop- 
portune; for, unless I deceive myself, Mdlle. 
Juliette was on the point of giving me her entire 
confidence. When you next write to Mme. Fon- 
tenoy, my dear cousin, will you oblige me by 
telling her how profoundly grateful I am for her 
kindness?” 

It seemed to Gilbert as if a mountain had been 
suddenly lifted from his shoulders, and he saw 
that that mountain, which had weighed on him 
so heavily, was in reality nothing but a nebu- 
lous cloud, the product of his deviated imagina- 
tion. Life all at once appeared to him brighter, 
broader, and longer, also. Behind the folds of 
that bugbear of a cloud new horizons appeared 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


249 


whose mysteries he dared not as yet attempt to 
penetrate. But why, then, had he suffered so? 
Why had he teased and tormented himself thus? 
For a chimera? a raw head and bloody bones? 
Poor humanity ! 

It is a noteworthy fact that when one of our 
number has been guilty of some particularly 
foolish act, it affords him great pleasure and re^- 
lief to bewail the faults and mistakes of human- 
ity at large. 

‘‘How are you getting on at La Tremblaj^e, 
now that you are leading a bachelor life there?” 
asked Forest. 

‘ ‘ I am bored to death, ’ ’ Fontenoy candidly re- 
plied. “The house is too big for one person. 
Juliette manages to fill it pretty well with her 
life and gayety, and I miss her, I can assure 
you.” 

“We know that,” said Forest, with a laugh. 
“But she was not there in June and July, and 
you told me yourself that you were not bored an 
instant.” 

“Yes, but my wife was there ! ’ ’ Gilbert quickly 
answered, who surprised himself b}^ a reply so 
unexpected. 

“Is this the first time that you ever lived alone 
in your own house?” Forest rather maliciously 
continued. 

“I — I believe it is,” replied Fontenoy, more 
and more astonished by the discoveries he had 
made in relation to himself within the last few 
minutes. “I have frequently been away from 
home, but I don’t think that it ever happened 


250 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


me to be left alone in my own house, either at 
Paris or elsewhere.” 

“Mme. Pontenoy maintained the sacred fire on 
the altar of the domestic deities,” said the phi- 
losopher with a pleasant smile. ‘‘Well, my good 
friend, now is the time for you to reciprocate her 
kindness. I hope you are a tolerably good house- 
keeper?” 

“Faith, no! I don’t know the first thing 
about it,” Fontenoy modestly confessed. 

He returned to his lonely abode at evening, 
after dinner, with a mind full of confused spec- 
ulations. 

The next morning, after a solitary breakfast, 
he proceeded to take a stroll through his big 
house, where everything was as neat and in the 
same excellent order as the week before, and was 
vexed to find it so large. 

“It is a great deal too big for us,” he reflected. 
“I don’t know what we could have been think- 
ing of when we bought this huge barrack. 
There’s room enough to lodge a regiment, and 
for us two to live here alone — ” 

It suddenly occurred to him that the huge 
barrack had not seemed too large for their re- 
quirements while Mme. Fontenoy was there. 

*'Let one depart, and the whole world is vacant I” 

his memory repeated to him. He smiled, like 
one who appreciated the value of poetry applied 
to the sentiments of one no longer young. 

In the meantime, it was an indisputable fact 
that La Tremblaye was lonely, fearfuUy lonely. 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


251 


Having fulfilled his duty as housekeeper, by 
giving the servants a general blowing up for im- 
aginary delinquencies, he gave orders to saddle 
his horse, and started forth on a round of visits 
to those of his neighbors with whom he was on 
familiar terms. And, under the shadows of the 
trees, which the finger of September had already 
begun to touch with golden tints, like Racine’s 
hero in the desert of the East, he aired his dis- 
content. 


XX. 

o 

At the expiration of a week Mme. Chassagny, 
whose health was quite restored, and was even 
better than it had been for a long time before, 
urged her sister to return to La Tremblaye. 
Edmee did not need to be asked twice. In addi- 
tion to the fact that the Clocher was anything 
but an agreeable residence, her domestic instinct 
told her that her own home would be the better 
for her presence, and, moreover, she asked her- 
self with tender solicitude how Gilbert was far- 
ing in his deserted state. 

For some reason or other Mme. Yerseley’s en- 
terprises were less an object of anxiety to her 
than in the past. But the vision of Fontenoy, 
stalking disconsolately about his great empty 
mill, presented itself as vividly to her mind as if 
she had beheld him with her own bodily optics, 
in the act of accomplishing his melancholy pil- 
grimages from room to room. 


252 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


“Very well,” she said to her sister, “as you 
don’t need me any longer I will go. But you are 
to come to us within a week; you promised me 
you would.” 

“I don’t know,” began the self-constituted 
prisoner. 

“Then I shall remain,” said Edmee, although 
it cost her a great effort to speak the words. 

The discussion was protracted. Mme. Fon- 
tenoy, in support of her position, adduced the 
argument that it was a mother’s duty to see with 
her own eyes the man who might, possibly be- 
come her son-in-law. 

Mme. Chassagny, constantly haunted by the 
notion that her end was near at hand, had not 
thus far considered it necessary to inflict this 
task upon herself ; what good would it do to look 
on the face and listen to the words of one whom 
she was soon to see no more forever? It would 
only be a waste of time, . and perhaps the cause 
of unavailing regret. Fontenoy and his wife 
esteemed the young man worthy to be Juliette’s 
husband, therefore he must be so, for she had the 
most implicit confldence in their united judg- 
ment. 

Seeing that she was not dead after a treatment 
which she had submitted to unwillingly, in a 
spirit of resignation and with the assurance that 
it would have a fatal termination, it occurred to 
Mme. Chassagny that not only her sister might 
be right, but that if she was to continue to live 
she would subject herself to deserved censure by 
thus neglecting so essential a portion of her mar- 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


253 


ital duties. After a long wrangle, to which she 
was incited by her natural obstinacy, as well as 
by an invincible shyness of temperament, Juli- 
ette’s mother finally yielded, and promised a 
visit of a week’s duration, to be made as soon as 
she was in fit condition to travel. 

“And take Juliette with you,” said she, when 
everything was arranged. 

“Take me? Not much!” exclaimed the young 
girl, who had been a silent listener to the con- 
versation, a circumstance that caused Mme. 
Fontenoy no little astonishment. “I am not 
going to leave mamma.” 

“What’s that?” cried Mme. Chassagny; “you 
are going to remain with me?” 

Juliette wagged her little chin affirmatively — 
so energetically that the two sisters looked at her 
in alarm. 

“And what about your marriage?” asked her 
mother, who could hardly trust her senses. 

“That will take place whenever it pleases 
Heaven and you, mamma. But, marriage or 
no marriage, I have made a vow never to leave 
you again!” 

Mme. Chassagny directed an interrogative 
glance at Edmee, but that lady was no wiser 
than her sister. 

“You see, mamma,” Juliette continued, “un- 
til now I’ve been a horrid, selfish thing; but 
there’s going to bean end of that! To think how 
many times I have come home at three, four and 
five o’clock in the morning ! I knew very well 
that you wouldn’t get a wink of sleep until you 


254 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


heard me come in; and yet I stayed. out, dancing 
and enjoying myself ! It makes me feel ashamed 
when I think of it, and I would like to give my- 
self a good pounding. But it is also no more 
than right to say that it was mainly the effect of 
. thoughtlessness, though I’m afraid I didn’t try 
very hard to think. And I don’t want that you 
should consider me a perfect monster, however 
much I may resemble one.” 

Mine. Chassagny, wonderful to relate, broke 
out in a fit of prolonged laughter. It was a 
thing that occurred so seldom with her, and had 
not happened in so long a time, that her daugh- 
ter looked at her in stupefaction. 

‘‘That’s right, mamma, make fun of me, if 
you will,” she went on, with increased warmth, 
as soon as she had a little recovered from her 
surprise. 

“It was so droll, the idea that any one should 
take you for a monster,” replied her mother, 
still under the influence of her inextinguishable 
merriment. 

“Yes, a monster! And if any one in this 
world is entitled to the credit of discovering that 
I am not so black a monster as I seem, that per- 
son is — ” 

She stopped short and dropped her eyes, appar- 
ently determined to say no more. 

“Is M. Malvois?” Edmee gently suggested. 

The little chin went up twice and down twice, 
with great emphasis. 

“If he had the ingenuity to make such an im- 
portant discovery he is deserving of a reward,” 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


255 


said Mme. Chassagny. ‘‘I would advise you 
not to make him wait too long.” 

“He’ll wait!” Juliette rejoined. “If he were 
to lose heart for such a little thing, he wouldn’t 
be' worth the trouble.” 

“The trouble of what?” insisted Mme. Chas- 
sagny, who was a great stickler for precision of 
language. 

“The trouble of— of marrying him, my dear 
mother. ’ ’ 

“But, Juliette,” Mme. Fontenoy laughingly 
said, “if M. ]\falvois won’t wait, where will 
your marriage be?” 

The young girl burst into tears. It was so 
unlooked-for a proceeding on her part that her 
aunt was thunderstruck. She put her arms 
around her, and would have consoled her, but 
Juliette gently released herself. 

“Don’t tease me, aunt,” she said, between her 
sobs; “please don’t tease me! If you knew how 
hard I am trying to do my duty — ” 

She saw the lameness of her defense, and ran 
away and locked herself in her room. Mme. 
Fontenoy was greatly alarmed. 

“I don’t think I have ever seen her cry since 
she was twelve years old, ’ ’ she said to her sister. 

“Nor I,” replied Mme. Chassagny. “But it’s 
not a bad sign, the way I look at it.” 

When Juliette made her appearance again, 
she was all smiles and blushes, with a shy grace 
and pretty caressing ways that made her even 
more than usually bewitching. She had the air 
of one seeking forgiveness for something she 


256 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


had done, although her girlish face was bright 
with the pleasure of a generous sacrifice. 

When the subject of her departure was again 
broached, she met it with a very decided nega- 
tive. 

“If you insist,” said she, “I shall think, in 
the first place, that Aunt Edmee wants to dis- 
oblige me, and that is not the least bit like her ; 
and next, that mamma doesn’t love me any 
longer, and wants to get rid of me.” 

Mme. Chassagny said nothing, but her eyes 
were perceptibly moist under their lowered lids. 

“Then that’s settled, and I’m to stay,” Juli- 
ette continued. “And now,” she added, curling 
herself up like a kitten on the sofa beside her 
mother, “if mamma doesn’t wish — well, if she 
doesn’t wish to have all sorts of dreadful things 
happen, darling mamma will start with me for 
La Tremblaye, let’s see — Monday, Tuesday, 
Wednesday” — reckoning on her fingers — “on 
Thursday next, just a week from to-day.” 

This time the three women laughed in concert, 
and Mme. Chassagny did not sa/'n6. The light 
that shone in her black eyes, handsome still, 
though showing the traces of suffering and ill- 
ness, betrayed a happiness that they had not 
known for many a year. 

“Then all that remains for me to do is to pack 
my trunk,” said Edmee. “I shall write to my 
husband that I start to-morrow. I will stop over 
one night at Paris; it will afford me a chance to 
see my dressmaker — the dressmaker, doesn’t that 
consideration tempt you, Juliette? I will have 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


257 


her make you a nice little gown, if you will go 
with me. You won’t? You shall have it any- 
way, only you’ll have to depend on me for the 
selection. If it doesn’t suit you it will be no- 
body’s fault but your own.” 


XXI. 

Gilbert was walking on the bank of the Xon- 
nette, more at peace with himself than he had 
been in a long time. This happy frame of mind 
he attributed to the news, received by him that 
morning, of Edmee’s departure for Paris. Her 
return would restore a little order and harmony 
to a household somewhat demoralized by the 
mistress’s absence. 

A fine mist, harbinger of autumn, had cast a 
few alder and poplar leaves on the much-trodden 
path, from which D’Argilesse no longer made 
any pretense of fishing for minnows. 

Really, that man D’Argilesse, the more one 
came to know of hirn, the less he fulfilled the 
promise of his early acquaintance. He was cold, 
hard and cynical, even in intimate conversation. 

Cynicism in the conversation of a man of the 
world is not generally repugnant to another man 
of the same category. But if one sets up for a 
cynic, the least he can do is to maintain the atti- 
tude. This was what D’Argilesse failed to do; 
he had as many attitudes as he met persons to 
converse with. Pontenoy, who was always con- 
sistent in word and deed, had no great liking for 


258 


•AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


this perfect adaptability ; he preferred to be sulky 
when he felt like it, and his friends preferred to 
have him so. 

Was it the truth that D’Argilesse’s cynicism, 
instead of being assumed, or, at the utmost, in- 
tentionally exaggerated, as was the case with 
the majority of his contemporaries, was genuine 
and formed the foundation of the man’s char- 
acter? If that were so, then his virtues were all 
a pretense and a sham? The question was im- 
portant, and called for serious investigation. 

Gilbert had come to the end of the path. The 
road lay before him, skirting the Fremonts’ 
property, and from there proceeding to Chantilly. 
He determined to push on that far to see what 
information he could pick up concerning a horse 
that had been offered him, and that he was 
thinking of buying. 

The wall inclosing the park was low. On the 
other side was an alley of horse-chestnut trees, 
which the approach of autumn had stripped of 
their foliage. Their sturdy but almost leafless 
branches no longer yielded shade, and afforded 
no obstacle to sounds. 

Walking leisurely in the pale sunlight, be- 
neath a sky flecked with thin, white, fleecy 
clouds resembling cotton-wool, Gilbert heard the 
sound of a familiar voice holding forth under the 
trees. The air was so still, the silence so un- 
broken, that he could distinguish the dull sound 
produced b}^ the carroming of one horse-chestnut 
against another, the cue being the tip of a cane 
or umbrella in the hand of an irate owner. 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


259 


‘^You say what you please,” declared Mme. 
Verseley’s angry voice; ‘‘and you do what you 
like.” 

“Isn’t that what we all do?” D’Argilesse 
nonchalantly rejoined. 

Fontenoy halted. He undeniably had a very 
strong desire to learn what might be the nature 
of the reflections that those two persons were 
exchanging; but how far was he justifled, as a 
man of honor, in listening to their conversation? 

“You do what you like,” continued the lady. 
“Come, will you have the face to tell me that 
you have not been making up to that poor sim- 
pleton, Mme. Fontenoy?” 

Fontenoy felt that further scruples would be 
misplaced.. The promenaders beyond the wall 
were pursuing the same direction as he. The 
thick dust deadened the sound of his footsteps; 
and, moreover, they did not dream that they 
could be overheard. Gilbert unhesitatingly con- 
tinued his progress. 

“Do yon believe that?” asked D’Argilesse, in 
a tone of innocent wonder. 

Another chestnut, impelled by the irate um- 
brella, was heard to rebound from a stone bench. 

“Do I believe it! There is not a soul, except 
her husband, who has not noticed it. Even 
Juliette, who is beginning to meddle in the 
business — as you might have seen the other 
evening. I tell you plainly that I don’t like it.” 

“Are you jealous of Mme. Fontenoy?” asked 
D’Argilesse. 

Fontenoy, who was acquainted with his tricks 


260 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


of manner, divined that he was looking at Mme. 
Verseley out of the corner of his eye with an 
irony which, though essentially cruel, possessed 
a certain attraction of its own. 

“I, jealous? I would have you understand 
that I am jealous of no one,” the invisible lady 
scornfully replied; ‘‘but I like to have things 
open and above-board. You allowed me to be- 
lie v'e, and you even told me in so many words, 
that it was for my sake that you came down 
here, and now it appears that she is mixed up 
in the affair. Is it on my account or on hers 
that you are here? That’s what I want to 
know.” 

“On account of both!” D’Argilesse replied, 
with a low laugh, the reverse of tender. 

The wall ended at that point with an iron 
gate whose bars afforded a view of the road. 
Either from caution or from curiosity D’Argi- 
lesse cast a glance that way and beheld Fonte- 
noy, pursuing his way with an unaltered gait. 

“He heard us,” he briefly said to his com- 
panion. 

But he was quick-witted in emergencies; impu- 
dent, some would have said. Raising his hat, he 
said aloud: “Ah, there! — good-day, Fontenoy.” 

He who was thus addressed turned his head 
and bowed slightly, but manifested no intention 
of stopping. 

“There was a touch of the hat that I’ll bet it 
went against his grain to make,” D’Argilesse 
tranquilly observed, “and it wouldn’t surprise 
me if it resulted in a touch of swords. I have 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


261 


told you before this, madame, that a room is 
the only safe place to talk of one’s affairs in, and 
even then it is better to make sure that the walls 
are thick.” 

They parted without further exchange of 
words, while Gilbert pursued his way to 
Chantilly. 

His soul was seething with indignant rage. 
Several times, although the physical part of 
him continued to move onward, the mental 
retraced its steps to lash the false friend 
with one of those taunts that cut like the 
stroke of a whip. But time and place were 
not propitious. The matter required more 
serious reflection than he could give it in 
the hot sunshine of the dusty road. 

Before he came to the first houses of Chan- 
tilly, Fontenoy had decided on the general 
outlines of a plan, on which he afterward 
deliberated more fully in the shade of the si- 
lent forest. In the meantime, he had paid his 
visit of inspection to the horse, but had no 
heart to assure himself of his good points, or 
try to detect his weak ones. To the dealer, 
asking if he did not wish to try him, he ab- 
sently replied: ‘‘Bring him to me to-morrow 
afternoon,” and hurried away as if glad to be 
released from a disagreeable task. 

D’Argilesse’s manner of speaking of Edmee 
had stuDg him as when a sapling flies back and 
strikes the face of one passing through a wood. 
How! that man dare assert that Mine. Fonte* 
noy had been the object of his attentions? “Mme. 


20 0 AN OLD FOLKS' WOOING. 

Fontenoy is not the kind of woman that a man 
pays court to, sir ! She is a woman entirely above 
suspicion, to whom no one may raise his eyes, 
even in the way of honest admiration.’’ 

But remembering how, no longer ago than 
yesterday, he had interpreted Malvois’ mes- 
sage, simple and straightforward as it was, 
and intrusted to him for delivery, Fontenoy 
experienced a considerable abatement of his 
loftiness. Of course, he could not permit any- 
one to speak lightly of his wife, even with no 
other object than the ill-natured one of arous- 
ing the jealousy of another woman. 

Here Gilbert made a sudden leap to the bot. 
tom of his conscience and emerged in a state 
of excessive humiliation. His wife, set up as 
a rival to Mme. Verseley, by D’Argilesse! 

“I did wrong in allowing myself to become 
intimate with persons of their stripe,” said he 
to himself, with a sincere sensation of reproach, 
one of those sensations that penetrate the heart 
like a knife. ‘‘I should never have presented 
that woman to Mme. Fontenoy, or suffered her 
to ask her to our house. And I should have 
waited until I knew more of D’Argilesse; for 
if it were to do again to-day I would act dif- 
ferently.” 

This med culpa produced a salutary effect. 
Gilbert took advantage of the momentary re- 
spite to make this mental reflection: “Still, it 
must be admitted that if we associated in so- 
ciety only with those we knew and could vouch 
for, our acquaintance would be very limited.” 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


263 


His conscience sternly reprimanded him : 

“There are several ways of knowing people. 
You made these particular ones your associates 
because your vices — ” 

Fontenoy objected to this. Vices was too 
severe. His conscience went on a little more 
indulgently : 

“Because your weaknesses of the moment 
found it to their interest. You are not a 
Oato, my dear Monsieur Fontenoy!” 

“Well and good,” he resumed, in his own per- 
son, with a shade of annoyance. “We are not 
talking of me. We are talking of D’Argilesse. 
What is to be done in relation to him?” 

Gilbert saw that it was impossible to answer 
this question without giving it more deliberate 
consideration. He remembered now the aver- 
sion that Edmee had exhibited to his proposal 
of inviting D’Argilesse to La Tremblaye, as 
well as the frankness with which she had sub- 
sequently expressed an antipathy bordering on 
contempt. 

“I behaved like a senseless idiot,” he said to 
himself, “and I am a great deal more fortunate 
than I deserve to be in having a wife gifted with 
tact, taste, and — and — ” 

What else his wife was gifted with he never 
discovered; but a deep, unconquerable longing 
to set eyes once more on that female paragon 
suddenly seized him and drove him off hot- 
footed to La Tremblaye. 

It was near dinner-time when he reached 
home, weary as to his legs, but very light of 


264 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


heart. Whatever might be the destiny reserved 
for D’Argilesse — this point was in abeyance; 
but the false friend was surely to be punished 
— Fontenoy was henceforth assured as to his 
wife’s desert, and his heart chanted a paean of 
victory. 

The voice of conscience is still and small; but 
very importunate, however. 

“False friend?” queried Gilbert’s conscience, 
“do you call him a false friend? Is that be- 
cause he took Mme. Verseley away from you, or 
because he tried to rob you of your wife’s affec- 
tion? In either event, tell me, have you never 
been a false friend to any one?” 

But the time for holding a court of inquiry cn 
himself was not yet come. Gilbert brushed 
aside all such considerations as frivolous and 
out of season, and returned to the glorious, in- 
vincible image of the absent Edmee. 

And the night seemed long to him, so great 
was his desire to meet the candid look of those 
topaz-colored eyes. 


XXII. 

It was late when Fontenoy awoke the follow- 
ing morning, for the god of Slumber had not 
been kind to him during the night; but as he 
would have the shorter time to wait he did not 
greatly mind. While eating his breakfast he 
opened his newspaper, from force of habit 
mainly, but also because to the countryman 


AN OLD FOLKS^ WOOING. 


265 


the daily paper afiards a perennial interest to 
which the sated townsman is a stranger. 

As he was carelessly running his eye over it, 
a displayed heading attracted his attention. It 
was the brief account of a serious railway acci- 
dent near Etampes. One train had telescoped 
another. There were two killed and several in- 
jured, some of whom were women. 

Fontenoy left the table, the victim of in- 
describable anxiety. Edmee had announced 
her intention of leaving Paris by a train start- 
ing at about that hour. Could it be that she 
was among the number of the injured? — he dared 
not think of the dead. 

Could it be that his wife, his dear wife, for 
twenty years his companion, in these more re- 
cent times his friend, faithful to him always 
in spite of his neglect, patient and long-suffer- 
ing, sympathizing with him in his hours of 
trouble, and brave — he could see it now — under 
her gentle and modest exterior — could it be that 
she was among the victims, was even then suf- 
fering fearful torture? The thought was too 
horrible. It could not be. 

He hastened to consult the time-table, intend- 
ing to go to Paris in quest of tidings. There 
was no train for two hours — that meant two 
hours of intolerable suspense. He seated him- 
self by the table, and burying his face in his 
hands, gave himself up to bitter thoughts. 

It was he — he alone — who had caused Edmee’s 
tears to flow; for he remembered now that she 
had wept. he remembered the melancholy of 


266 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


the handsome face, and the calm but sorrowful 
expression with which his wife had answered 
“No” when he asked her if she had not been 
happy. Ah, truly she had not been happy, poor 
woman, if she had experienced one-half the 
anguish and distress that were now gnawing 
at his heart! 

And what if it should be now too late to tell 
her of all those things that had just dawned on 
his consciousness? What if she had departed 
for a country where the race of ungrateful hus- 
bands is not known, or were about departing, 
and he not given the opportunity to tell her of 
his regret and remorse? But no, it could not be! 

He gave orders to put the horses to the car- 
riage. A train would soon be in from Paris. 
He would go to the station; perhaps there 
would be news. Intelligence of such a disas- 
ter is not confined to the newspapers; tidings 
are conveyed b}^ the railway hands from sta- 
tion to station by word of mouth, even along the 
lines of other roads. 

PoorEdmee! She h^d indeed been patient! 
Only a few days ago she had spoken to him so 
kindly when he was suffering — suffering on 
account of that viper who had dared to apply 
the epithet simpleton to that pure woman whose 
shoe she was unworthy to unloose ! He remem- 
bered the soft slender hands that had eased the 
pain of his aching brow, and the immediate sen- 
sation of relief and comfort that their cool con- 
tact had afforded him. He remembered it all 
as the thirsting traveler in the desert recalls the 


AN OLD FOLKS WOOING. 


267 


iced beverages that he has drunk at home, in 
the pleasant summer evenings. Ah, those dear 
hands, the hands of his loyal wife, was he ever 
to hold them in his own again? 

The carriage was ready. He took his seat in 
it. The coachman, unconscious of his master’s 
anxiety, was disposed to spare the horses. He 
chid him impatiently and bade him drive faster. 
The train had not arrived. He paced the plat- 
form for what seemed to him an interminable 
time. At last the signal changed, the locomo- 
tive appeared far down the track at the curve, 
rapidly drew near, passed him, and stopped. 
Hands, gloved and ungloved, were seen eagerly 
fumbling at the fastenings of the doors, and on 
the step of the car directly in front of him ap- 
peared a small, high-arched foot, followed by a 
skirt of which the color was familiar to him, 
and his wife jumped lightly to the ground. 

He darted forward and almost caught her in 
his arms, greatly to her surprise. 

“Edmee!” he murmered, in a choking voice. 

His happiness was so great that it bordered 
on pain. He would have wished to embrace 
her, press her to his bosom, say and do a thou- 
sand idiotic things, but the time and place were 
not propitious to such effusive demonstrations. 
He conducted her outside the station, placed her 
in the open carriage, and they drove rapidly 
away. 

“I had not the least idea of finding you here. 
It was extremely nice of you to come,” Edmee 
contentedly remarked. ‘‘I did not know that I 


268 


AN OLD FOLKS" WOOING. 


should be able to get away so early, aud there- 
fore did not mention the train I thought of 
taking.” 

“If you knew what a fright I’ve had!” said 
he, in a low voice. 

She looked at him more closely. His face had 
the worn expression of the days when he was 
at his worst. 

“What was it?” she inquired in alarm. 

“That accident, near Etampes. I thought it 
might be your train.” 

Edmee’s face became very pale. “Was there 
an accident?” said she. “I knew nothing of it. 
Oh, my poor friend !” 

They had left the last houses of Chantilly be- 
hind them. By a common impulse their hands 
sought each other and were locked in a tight 
clasp. Fontenoy closed his eyes and was 
steeped in silent bliss. But he was afraid that 
he might appear ridiculous in his wife’s eyes, 
and gently released his hand. 

“You had not heard of it?” he said, endeavor- 
ing to appear more like himself. “So much the 
better.” 

“Oh, no! If I had known I should have tele- 
graphed you. Did you think I was in the acci- 
dent? Were there any people hurt?” 

“Some were killed,” Fontenoy replied in hol- 
low tones. The torture that he had been endur- 
ing for the last hour was still so present to him 
that he could not think of it without shuddering. 
“So the papers say, at least.” 

“It must be a mistake, or at all events an ex- 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


269 


aggeration,” said Edmee, ‘‘for I heard no talk 
of it at Paris this morning, and you know how 
rapidly such tidings always spread.” 

“Well, you are safe and sound; that’s all I 
ask,” he declared in a tone of relief. 

Nothing more was said until they reached La 
Tremblaye. The change that Mme. Pontenoy 
perceived in her husband was so great and un- 
expected that she hardly dared trust her senses. 
Knowing his peculiar disposition, she made no 
further advances, for fear lest he might with- 
draw into himself again; but her heart beat in 
her bosom with a glad though timid emotion. 

“I’ll bet you’ve had no breakfast,” said Gil- 
bert, as they were alighting. 

“Only a cup of milk this morning,” she 
laughingly replied. 

The charm was broken that had caused that 
pressure of their hands in the carriage. Edmee 
ascended to her room without any words of 
more explicit meaning having been exchanged 
between them. Fifteen minutes later she came 
down again, took her place at table, and re- 
sumed her functions, exactly as if she had never 
been away. 

To behold her once more occupying that place 
that had been vacant for a week afforded Fonte- 
noy unspeakable delight. Furtivel}^, and while 
she was not observing him, he watched her most 
trifling movements and found them characterized 
by a certain indescribable grace that he was as- 
tonished he had never noticed until then. It 
was the sparing use she made of gestures that 


270 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


made her so pleasant and reposeful an object for 
the eye to rest on. She never employed them 
indeed, except when necessity required them, 
It was soothing to the mind and to the eye 
to see a woman who was not in a constant 
flutter of needless movement. 

Where were the storms of the day before and 
of that morning? The table at which they were 
seated had an air of joy and cheerfulness with 
its centerpiece of fruits and flowers, so rich in 
color, of perfume so penetrating. The two break- 
fasters had not much to say; but a tacit under- 
standing made their most trifling words im- 
portant; for they were seasoned with a smile. 
Suddenly Fontenoy remembered that he had 
an account to settle with .D’Argilesse. He 
looked at his wife. If she had remained in 
that dreadful accident it would have been hor- 
rible. Such an affliction would have cast a 
shadow of blood on the remainder of Gilbert’s 
days. But if D’Argilesse had succeeded in his 
designs it would have been a hundred-fold worse 
still ! 

She was saved from every threatened ill, seated 
at his side, for many a long year, he fondly 
hoped, unless D’Argilesse were more adroit 
or luckier than he. He could not endure the 
thought, and his anger dyed his face of a dull 
red, even to the temples. The meal was finished. 
He gave his wife a questioning look, whereon 
she rose. 

“I foolishly allowed myself to be persuaded 
into promising to try a horse to-day,” he said. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


271 


‘‘The dealer is to bring him this afternoon some 
time, at what hour I really cannot say. I had 
something else on my mind yesterday and did 
not pay attention to what was said.” 

“I have had exercise enough to last me for 
some time,” Edmee replied, with a smile. “I 
shall be glad to remain at home for the rest of 
the day, if it is agreeable to you.” 

They went and seated themselves on the in- 
closed bridge for a comfortable chat, and Mme. 
Fontenoy had just begun to tell the story of 
Juliette’s sacrifice when word was brought to 
them that the horse was there. Fontenoy, not 
with very good grace, left his easy-chair and 
went down to the court. 

The animal seemed to promise well. Fon- 
tenoy’s horsey instinct could not resist the 
temptation of getting astride of him. Edmee, 
impelled by friendly motives, had already of- 
fered a lump of sugar that was unceremoni- 
ously accepted by the sociable animal, when 
it occurred to her that the narrow court^/ard 
of the old mill was ill- adapted for equestrian 
maneuvers. 

“You would do better to go out upon the road, 
my friend,” she said to her husband. “I shall 
be better able to watch the horse’s action from 
the window of the drawing-room, and you will 
have a fairer opportunity to see how he be- 
haves.” 

The gate was thrown open to Fontenoy and 
his mount, who, to their mutual satisfaction. 


272 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


went through a series of exercises designed to 
make them better acquainted with each other. 

A cloud of dust in the direction of the Fre- 
monts’ fortress heralded the approach of some 
unusual phenomenon. Unusual indeed it was, 
for the first thing that presented itself to Ed- 
mee’s vision was little Descrosses, mounted on 
a small black pony with fiowing mane and tail 
that had an unsavory reputation for viciousness, 
and whose one object in life was to unseat its 
rider. Kind-hearted Edmee, perceiving how 
matters stood, refiected that, while there is no 
law compelling an attorney to ride like a pro- 
fessor of equitation, still a smattering of the 
accomplishment might not be amiss, even to a 
chartered leader of the cotilion. 

After him came Mme. Yerseley, accompanied 
by M. Dormant, both well mounted and irre- 
proachable in their equipment, and behind them 
rode D’Argilesse on the jumping mare, with 
whom he was evidently on extremely bad terms. 
She was pulling violently on the bit, with an 
occasional wicked sidewise lunge, and seemed 
to be meditating overt rebellion. 

At sight of Fontenoy M. Dormant pulled up. 
Mme. Yerseley did the same, and little Des- 
crosses, as soon as he perceived it, wheeled his 
pony and came and ranged up alongside them. 

“Is that horse yours?” inquired M. Dormant. 

“Kot quite. Almost,” Gilbert answered. 
“How do you like him?” 

“Pretty well. He’s a handsome animal; al- 
most too handsome for a horse not intended for 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


2y3 


lady’s use. He is ra.ther light; but then you’re 
not a heavy man.” 

Meantime D’Argilesse had rejoined his com- 
panions. He pulled in the mare in front of the 
balcony whence Edmee had not had time to 
make her retreat and made a low and graceful 
bow. Edmee answered his salutation without 
looking at him. Fontenoy had his eye on them 
both and felt a strong inclination to bring his 
riding-cane into action; but his false friend had 
himself under such complete control that it would 
have been impossible to force a quarrel on him. 

“You have got back, I see, madame,” said 
Mine. Verseley, whose eyes had snapped spite- 
fully at sight of Edmee. “Did you have a 
pleasant journey?” 

“Yes, madame; I thank you,” civilly replied 
she who was thus accosted. 

After this ther^ was silence. M. Dormant, 
seeing no reason for remaining longer, gathered 
up his reins in readiness to move, and little Des- 
crosses’s pony, considering the opportunity too 
favorable to be neglected, and profiting by his 
rider’s inadvertence, seized the bit in his teeth, 
broke through the line of other horses, and gal- 
loping away like mad in the direction of the 
feudal castle. The shock sent the young law- 
yer’s hat flying from his head. It struck 
Coralie on the muzzle, whence it rebounded 
and fell upon the road. 

The mare emitted a shrill cry of rage and 
terror, and started to back. Behind D’Argi- 
lesse and on the opposite side of the road were 


274 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


a shallow ditch and the wall of a barn, which 
had once served as a storehouse for the grain 
of the mill. 

‘‘Look out there, D’Argilesse!” shouted Dor- 
mant; “that’s a nasty spot.” 

D’Argilesse was exerting all his skill to 
quiet the fractious brute that, with head down 
and ears laid back, was sniffing and snorting at 
the ill-starred headpiece. Suddenly she reared 
straight on end and began to walk backward on 
her hind legs. 

Gilbert, perceiving the gravity of the situa- 
tion, had jumped down from his horse, and M. 
Dormant had followed his example. He was 
certainly resolved to show D’Argilesse no mercy 
in the duel that he was contemplating; but to 
see him hurt, perhaps killed, in front of his own 
door, was another matter, and one that he could 
not stand by and witness with indifference. M. 
Dormant and he, one on each side of the mad- 
dened brute, tried to seize her by the bridle. 
Gilbert grasped it once; but a blow of the ani- 
mal’s head, so violent that he thought his arm 
was broken, forced him to release his hold. 

“Gilbert!” faintly cried Edmee, who, con- 
vulsively grasping with both hands the railing 
of the balcony, was watching the contest with 
eyes dilated by horror. 

Fontenoy turned, oblivious of the danger, and 
in those eyes which saw but him read all that 
he had wished to know — the promise of eternal 
union between their souls, each reconquered by 
the other. 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


275 


The mare still continued to back and rear; 
one of her legs went down into the ditch. Scram- 
bling desperate]}^, she made frantic efforts to 
preserve her footing. 

‘‘Jump!” shouted M. Dormant, in a voice 
husky with terror. 

It was too late. In her efforts to recover her- 
self, and partly also, no doubt, owing to her in- 
born ugly disposition, Coralie struggled with a 
fury that made it impossible for D’Argilesse to 
save himself by leaving the saddle. Then, rear- 
ing with all the energy of her perverse nature, 
she dashed her head against the wall behind her 
with such violence that she went down, her skull 
broken, carrying with her her bruised and bleed- 
ing rider. Her legs quivered convulsively for 
a moment, then she exhaled a deep breath that 
was like a sigh, and was still. 

The servants of the house had come running 
up, attracted by the noise, and now attempted 
to release the wretched man. -Mme. Yerseley, 
who, at the very beginning of the trouble, had 
prudently taken refuge in the courtyard, where 
she remained without uttering a word, watched 
them — a shade more pale than usual — with dis- 
tended eyes. 

Edmee’s entire attention had been directed on 
her husband. When the mare fell, her only 
thought had been one of thankful joy to see 
him erect, safe and unhurt. She cast her eyes 
on the spot wdiere man and horse lay tangled in 
a confused mass, and the reality of the situation 
dawned on her mind. 


276 AN OLB folks’ WOOING. 

Leaving the house, she came out on the road 
and instinctively went up to Gilbert, who took 
her arm and pressed it to his side. Mme. Verse- 
ley, motionless in the gateway, eyed the pair 
with cold contempt. 

‘‘He is not dead, is he?” Edmee murmured 
to her husband below her breath. 

Fontenoy shook his head doubtfully. The 
servants had at last freed the body, and it could 
be seen as they raised it in their arms, a bloody 
froth upon the lips, the head hanging down 
helplessly on the shoulder. They laid him 
down beside the road, under the window 
where a moment before Edmee had received 
his salutation. 

M. Dormant bent over him, feeling for the 
heart. He rose, pale as the dead man himself. 

“His neck must have been broken,” said he, 
“and some of the ribs are fractured.” 

A mounted man was already galloping toward 
Chantilly in quest of a physician, but mortal 
assistance was no longer of avail to D’Argilesse. 

“Go back indoors, Edmee,” said Fontenoy, 
in a tone of deep tenderness. “You will make 
yourself ill.” 

“No,” she gently replied. “Have no fear for 
me. Is it all over?” 

“I fear so, madame,” answered M. Dormant. 

“If that is the case he — the remains ought not 
to be left lying here in the road,” Mme. Fonte- 
noy hesitatingly said. 

“We have no litter to carry him on,” asserted 
one of the men. 

“That can be arranged,” said Fontenoy; “but 
where are we to carry him? To his inn?” 

“My friend,” said Edmee, in a low voice 
and with an accent of ineffable compassion, 
“this barn is unoccupied. The body might be 
deposited there temporarily if you have no ob- 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


277 


jections. It would, at least, be protected from 
the gaze of the passers. ’ ’ 

‘‘You are right,” promptly replied her hus- 
band, who gave the necessary directions. 

M. Dormant had mounted again. Mme. Ver- 
seley came and took her place beside him. They 
saluted Fontenoy and his wife before starting on 
their return to the Fremonts’ house. Their salute 
was civilly returned; but there was no expres- 
sion visible save pity in Edmee’s eyes as they 
encountered those of her former rival. Truly 
she was an innocent, this honest woman. 

While the servants were preparing a decent 
resting-place for the dead man’s remains, Mme. 
Fonteney went upstairs to her linen-closet with 
her bunch of keys and selected a pair of her 
finest sheets, then took from the guest chamber 
a crucifix and a branch of evergreen that had 
been blessed by the priest, and placing the vari- 
ous articles in a basket, dispatched them to the 
barn. Her husband, coming in at that moment, 
met her on the staircase as she was descending. 
He took her by the hand and conducted her to 
the small drawing-room, where he closed the 
door and came and took a seat beside her. 

“Edmee,” he said to her, “I know I am not 
worthy of you, but I love you with all my heart 
and soul. This is not a suitable occasion, but 
some day I will tell you how I came to know 
you.” ^ 

She interrupted him with a gesture, so gentle 
that it could not have been other than a suppli- 
cation. 

“You shall know the story of my life,” he 
continued; “and particularly of these more 
recent times, my errors, and the means by 
which I was cured of my blindness.” 

“I wish to know nothing,” she replied, turn- 
ing on him the golden luster of her liquid orbs, 
now suffused with tender feeling. “You have 


278 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


told me that you entertain a friendly feeling 
toward me.” 

“It is not friendship alone, Edmee. It is that 
and a great deal more beside. It is all the 
affection and gratitude that a man can feel for 
his wife; for the woman who has all his love 
and is his for life. My only fear is that you 
cannot forgive me.” 

“Forgive you! ” she said, with a sigh of hap- 
piness. “Ah, the time is passed when I thought 
I had anything to forgive — long, long ago!” 
We are no longer young, my friend; but we 
have still many pleasant and tranquil years to 
spend together, if it be the will of God ; and 
we may be very happy; for, say what you will, , 
dear Gilbert, we are entirely worthy of each 
other.” 

“You are worthy. That I know. . Where 
shall one find a. woman as generous as you? 
That wretch who lies dead below upon the 
road was not deserving of your pity.” 

“Had you heard?” asked Edmee, looking 
with some uneasiness at her husband. 

“I heard that he insulted you.” 

“A woman is not insulted because a man may 
have formed the intention of insulting her,” she 
replied, adverting her eyes. “The offense lies in 
the one offended, not in the offender. I expe- 
rienced no feeling of humiliation. Only a little 
anger at the utmost — and think how swift and 
severe the* punishment has been! ” 

They were silent. Fontenoy was not alto- 
gether satisfied. He would have desired to 
receive a more absolute pardon^ With touch- 
ing modesty he promised himself to endeavor 
to earn it. 

“Are you sure you are not hurt?” Edmee 
suddenly inquired. “How is your arm?” 

“There is nothing the matter with it, except 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


279 


that it’s a little sore. It will be all right to- 
morrow.” 

‘‘Ah! ” said she, with an indescribable accent 
of tenderness and solicitude, “I was horribly 
frightened! ” 

Fontenoy recalled the look that they had ex- 
changed and felt that he should not have to 
wait longer for his pardon; for he had a shrewd 
supicion that he had received it at that moment. 

“Were you frightened, dear wife?” said' he, 
with the chivalrous gallantry that had made 
him so dangerous. “Then it must be that you 
have a little affection for me remaining yet?” 

“I have never loved, I shall never love any- 
thing in the world as I love you,” she replied, 
giving him her hands. 


XXIII. 

Juliette and her mother arrived in due sea- 
son, in accordance with the promise made by 
them. 

The shadow that the recent catastrophe had 
cast over La Tremblaye had vanished. Save 
for Edmee, who shuddered every time her eyes 
lit on the fatal wall, and for Fontenoy, who 
often reflected on the incident that had spared 
him the necessity of chastising his false friend, 
the occurrence was, to all appearances,, forgotten 
by the inhabitants of the old mill. 

Verseley, upon whom the accident had pro- 
duced a deep impression, had come down and 
taken his wife away with him. On learning 
that she had witnessed the horrible affair, he had 
manifested alarm as to her nervous condition 
and hurried her off to the sea- shore, where he 
surrounded her with all the attentions he could 
command, although she protested that she had 


280 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


never been better in her life — a statement that 
seemed to be confirmed by the perfect poise of 
all her faculties, mental and physical. 

Mme. Verseley had no nerves, or if she had, 
it was not in the sense that is commonly applied 
to those necessary components of our organism; 
and any one who could have penetrated that por- 
tion of her nature which served her as a soul, 
would probably have found there a sensation of 
profound relief at being delivered from a man 
who had ceased to please. More than that, the 
inquirer who thought it worth his while to push 
his investigations so far, might have discovered 
that she was not sorry to see that man punished 
for his bad behavior toward her in paying atten- 
tions to another woman before she had restored 
to him his liberty. 

The day when Juliette made her triumphal 
entree — leading captive her mother, who had 
at last been subjugated and made to own 
allegiance to the laws and customs of society 
— was one of rejoicing at La Tremblaye, and 
no less so at Cerisy. Comte Forest, who came 
with Fabien to dine, had decorated his horses’ 
head-stalls with roses in the young lady’s honor, 
and the bouquet that he brought her would have 
satisfied the most exacting prima donna. 

“There, little girl,” said he, “that’s the way 
we old fellows do things when we have it at 
heart to please. We have rose-trees whose 
roses diffuse joy and delight far and wide, 
and yet it’s we who are best pleased of all!” 

She thanked him prettily in a few graceful 
words, with a smile that was new to him, a 
smile that seemed to light up her face from 
within, into which she infused a subtler and 
more mysterious charm than formerly. 

Fabien, while hoping that the privilege would 
soon be accorded him, had brought no flowers. 
He had brought 0UI7 himself, a very grave, al- 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 281 

most severe person in his irreproachable respec- 
tability. The poor fellow’’s mind was greatly 
disturbed lest he might fail to please Mme. 
Chassagny. 

Who would have thought two weeks ago that 
that excellent and timid lady had it in her 
power to inspire in him such terror? He had 
never even so much as asked himself what her 
nose might be like. He could see for himself 
by the way in which Juliette watched her, 
talked to her continually and brooded over her, 
so to speak, like a setting hen, that if the young 
girl had once sinned through indifference she 
had found her road of Damascus. 

Such exclusive attention could not but prove 
alarming to him. While driving back to 
Cerisy, after a formal and uninteresting din- 
ner, he opened his mind to Comte Forest on 
the subject. 

“Her road to Damascus?” replied his mentor. 
“I don’t suppose you would ever find it out; 
but from what Mme. Fontenoy tells me, I 
shouldn’t wonder if that miracle were one of your 
working. But don’t let yourself be alarmed 
unnecessarily. The dear child’s outburst of 
filial affection will moderate down before long. 
If it doesn’t, I know nothing about such mat- 
ters.” 

One day, not long after this, while Mme. 
Chassagny was taking her afternoon siesta, 
Juliette came to the apartment whose windows 
commanded a view of the road that led to the 
Fremonts’ castle and took a seat beside her 
aunt. 

“Auntie,” she said; “you must have received 
an awful shaking- up that day — the day of the 
accident.” 

“Yes, indeed,” Edmee dreamily replied. 

A countless host of thoughts and sentiments 
had interposed between her past and present, 


282 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


SO that she looked back on that incident as a 
frightful but very remote event; one of those 
occurrences that belong to history. D’Argi- 
lesse’s death had no appreciable place in the 
current of new impressions on v/hose bosom 
Mme. Fontenoy allowed herself to be borne 
gently onward, with an undefined sensation 
of pleasure, and her eyes, so to speak, bandaged. 

She was happy. Happy to an extent that she 
had never believed possible. Her old, old dream : 
to win back her husband on the threshold of old 
age and spend with him in tranquil joy, the joy 
of the mellow harvest-moon, whatever remain- 
ing years their destiny reserved for them, had 
been realized, and, more than all, had been real- 
ized immediately, and with a keen delight of 
which she had conceived no idea. It was now 
that for the first time life threw open for her its 
two-leaved doors. Marveling, she entered in, 
with the quick impressionability of a child, and 
all that past suffering can add to the present 
happiness of a woman. 

Her felicity was so great that she was almost 
ashamed of it, and felt constrained to conceal it 
even from Fontenoy, although her principal en- 
joyment consisted in conversing with him on 
topics that interested him, in thinking aloud in 
his presence — a thing that she had never done 
before. And that shy disclosure of the treas- 
ures of an intellect which had so long remained 
closed through indifference or fear, the modesty 
of that tender affection which hesitated to dis- 
play itself in its pure nudity, filled her husband 
with an exquisite delight, without limits and 
without end — a delight, that is to say, the du- 
i*ation of whose existence was bound to be co- 
existent with their own. 

Juliette had been watching the various ex- 
pressions that played over Mme. Fontenoy’s 
countenance. Although in many respects a 


AN OLD FOLKS’ WOOING. 


283 


mere child, she knew her aunt, and could 
often divine what was passing in her mind. 

‘‘And my uncle, too,” she went on; “it must 
have given him a start! When you wrote tell- 
ing me about it, I was afraid he might be taken 
sick — not from grief, though. As for me— I 
know that what I’m going to say is downright 
mean, but I don’t care — do you know I was not 
the least bit sorry?” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Edmee, highly scandalized. 

“Not — the — least — bit!” Juliette repeated, 
emphasizing her words. “He was a gentle- 
man — well, now that he’s dead you’ll hardly 
expect me to preach his funeral sermon; but 
he got just what he deserved! There!” 

The clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard out- 
side upon the road, and Juliette raised herself 
a little to see who it might be. She would not 
have dared do it at Paris, but in the country 
more latitude is allowed. 

“It’s little Descrosses,” said she. “I should 
think his experience that day would have cured 
him of his passion for horseback exercise. Per- 
haps he has a large assortment of hats, though. 
When I was little I knew — ” 

“M. Malvois,” announced the footman. 

Fabien entered, almost as severe and rigid as 
on the previous occasion. Had some foul sor- 
cerer broken the cord that he had fondly believed 
was strecchea between them, an invisible bridge 
over which their souls might pass and meet each 
other? He kissed Edmee’s hand, bowed to Ju- 
liette, and sedately took a- seat. 

“Did you rneet M. Descrosses?” asked Edmee. 

“I just caught a glimpse of him, no more,” 
the precise Tabia»r replied. 

“You did see him, monsieur? Then I may 
go on wit a what i was saying,” Juliette de- 
clared, with a mischievous smile. “When I 
was Hi tie I knew a monkey who rode horse- 


284 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


back — not for his pleasure — on a black poodle, 
and not for the poodle’s pleasure, either. Well; 
little Descrosses’s style of riding is exactly like 
that monkey’s; only he is not compelled to ride, 
and the monkey was, which makes it all the 
more inexcusable for the man!” 

‘‘You are too bad!” said Edmee, who could 
not keep from laughing. 

Fabien was in raptures. In his beatitude he 
asked for tidings of Mme. Chassagny. 

“She is slumbering, thanks, monsieur,” Juli- 
ette demurely replied. 

All her words and actions were marked by 
such exuberant drollery that her aunt looked 
at her with some solicitude. It was the inno- 
cent playfulness of a kitten, that sports and 
frolics in pure wantonness of animal spirits. 

Mme. Fontenoy was a little afraid that she 
might go too far and say something that might 
better be left unsaid; but Malvois’ gravity 
seemed sufficiently to offset her levity, so ? she 
rose, and, without the affectation of excusing 
herself, left them alone together. Juliette’s face 
immediately became serious. 

“Mademoiselle,” said Fabien, determined that 
he would not this time let the occasion slip 
through his fingers; “I have sympathized pro- 
foundly with you in your time of trouble. The 
happy tidings of your mother’s recovery filled 
me with delight. I hope now that — ” 

He stopped, disturbed by a dancing, fantastic 
light that he saw in Juliette’s eyes. 

/‘That — ?” she encouragingly said. 

“That she will continue to enjoy good health,” 
he testily concluded. 

It Is hard to be ridiculed when one is in ear- 
nest, and Fabien’s disposition was not exactly 
lamblike. 

“I hope so, too,” said Juliette, who felt a 
strong inclination to laugh. The kitten that 


AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 


285 


was in her had found its plaything and could 
not resist the desire to have a little sport. But 
she composed her features to a more serious ex- 
pression. The eyes that were bent on her were 
not those of a man with whom she could venture 
to trifle. 

“Do you remember what we were saying the 
night my aunt and I started off so suddenly?” 
she continued. “J was telling you that I dearly 
loved my poor mamma. It was the truth. My 
conscience reproached me, and I promised my- 
self that I would never leave her again.” 

It was rather hard on Fabien. He had been 
dreaming of an existence of quite a different 
nature. 

“But lo and behold!” Juliette went on, “she 
won’t have it so. She says that civilized peo- 
ple are tiresome, and declares she won’t be 
bothered with them. Still, we can’t go back 
again to the savage state, can we?” 

“Certainly not, mademoiselle!” replied Fa- 
bien, with a slight increase of confidence. 

“So we settled the matter on equitable princi- 
ples — give and take. She is to remain here two 
weeks, then will go back to the Clocher and have 
a month of solitude, and after that will come to 
us at Paris. I remember reading something 
like that in the mythology — who was it, Ceres 
or Proserpine? I’ve forgotten — ” 

“Ceres was the mother, mademoiselle.” 

“That’s the way it is, then: Ceres is mamma, 
the goddess of harvests. I wish you could see 
the Beauce, monsieur; it is magnificent — so 
every one says, at least But for my part — ” 

She was unable to endure Fabien’s ardent 
gaze, and lowered her eyes. 

“You prefer La Tremblaye?” 

She nodded her head in affirmation. He draw 
his chair a little nearer. 

“If you knew, mademoiselle, how glad I 


286 AN OLD folks’ WOOING. 

should be to live either in the Beauce or at 
La Tremblaye if — if it wouldn’t be too dis- 
agreeable to madame your mother — ” 

Juliette said nothing. He drew nearer still, 
and the remainder of the conversation was too 
confidential to be reported to unsympathizing 
readers. 

They talked for a long time, so long that the 
dinner hour was near at hand when Fontenoy, 
his wife, and Mme. Chassagny entered the room, 
accompanied by Comte Forest, who had come 
to take away his young friend and was himself 
inveigled into remaining for dinner. Juliette, 
her cheeks as red as a new-blown rose, on seeing 
them rose and made the foll6wing statement: 

“Since you come in like a troupe of actors 
making their entree at the end of the piece, it 
will be as well for ail of us to abandon the pre- 
tense of being blind to what is going on. We 
are engaged, and if M. Malvois is the man I 
take him to be he will step straight up to my 
darling little mamma and ask her for my hand.” 

She ran to her mother and threw her arms 
about her, and that was the end of the matter. 

After dinner — the evening being warm and 
pleasant — they all went out for a while upon 
the veranda. Juliette stood aside a little, and 
plucking gently at Malvois’ sleeve, drew him 
back beside her. 

“Make way for the lovers,” she said in a 
whisper. 

“And who may they be?” asked Fabien won- 
deringly. 

With a charming gesture she pointed to Fon- 
tenoy, who was contemplating his wife very 
tenderly. 


THE END. 



( 287 ) 


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CESS DOG BISCUIT for 5 cents; a 
This is a most wonderful SONG RE^’ 


STOKER for Canaries and all other Cage Birds. U. S. will brim- you 
ERjlE either a Bird Book, Dog Book, Horse and Cattle Book, paoer of 
Fronefield’s Cattle Powder, box of Corn Salve or Dye Color, if you "name 
the paper in which you saw this. Address THE BIRD FOOD COM 
PANY, 400 North 3d Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 





— the rotting and ruining 
of them — won’t show 
right away. Your new 
washing powder may be 
dangerous, but you’ll 
have to wait a little for 
its results. But it 
is doing its work, 
After a while, your 
clothes go to pieces, 
all at once. Now 
/Y' ' isn’t it better not to 

^jgj^? Isn’t it 
better to trust to an article like Peariine, 
which has been tried, tested, proved ? 

Pearline is manufactured only by 343 JAMES PYLEi N Y. 





Caru L. Jknsen’s Crystal Pepsin Tablets will cure Dyspepsia and will * 

vent IiKllgestion from rich food. Dose 1 tablet after each meal. Delivered | 
bv maii for 5()c. in sta.mi>s, Carl L. Jensen Co., 400 Norr.h - a 

Third Ptreec Philadelphia, Pa. Samples and Circulars g“ ^ ^ n i 


j BURNETT 

I - - - AT THE - - - 

pHICAQO EXPOSITION 


WHAT THE RESTAURATEURS AND CATERERS WHO ARE TO FEED 
THE PEOPLE INSIDE THE FAIR GROUNDS THINK OF 

BURNETTES EXTRACTS: 


Chicago, April 2d, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & uo. 

Gentlemen : After careful tests and inves- 
tigation of the merits of your flavoring ex- 
tracts, we have decided to give you the 
entire order for our use, in our working 
department as well as in all our creams and 
ices, used in all of our restaurants in the 
buildings of the World’s Columbian Ex- 
p^)sitlon at Jackson Park. 

Very truly yours, 
WELLINGTON CATERING CO. 

By ALBERT S. Gage, President. 


Chicago, April 26th, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen : After careful investigation we 
have decioed that. Burnett’s Flavoring Ex- 
tracts are the Lest. We shall use them ex- 
clusively in the cakes, ice creams and 
pastries served in Banquet Hall and at New 
England Clam Lake in the World’s Fair 
Grounds. 

N. E. WOOD, Manager, 

' New England Clam Bake Building. 

F. K. McDonald, Manager, 

Banquet Hall. 


Woman’s Building, > 

World’s Columbian Exposition, j 
Chicago, April 21st, 1893. 
EMessrs. Joseph Burnett & Co.. 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen : W e take i)leasure in stating 
rthat Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts will 
be used exclusively In the Garden Cafe, 
Woman’s Building, Vi orld’s Columbian Ex- 
position, during the period of the World’s 
Fair. 

RILEY & LAWFORD. 


Columbia Casino Co. 
M( ssrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston aiKA Cnicago. 

Gentlemen : We take pleasure in stating 
that Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts will be 
used exclusively in the cuisine oi the 
Columbia Casino Restaurant, at the 
\v' orld’s Fair Grounds, as it is our aim to 
use nothing but the best. Respectiullv, 

H. A. WINTER, Manager. 


4 


Transportation Building, 
World’s Columbian Exposition. 

„ Chicago, April 2-i, 1893. 

Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co. 

Gents : Alter careful tests and compari- 
sons v. e have decided to use “ Burnett’s 
Extracts ’ exclusively in our ice creams, 
ices and pastry. Very respectfully, 

, ,, SCHARPS &KAHN, 

Caterers for the “ Golden Gate Cafe,” 

TROCADEEO,- Building. 

Cor. 16th Street and Michigan Avenue. 


“The Great White Horse” Inn Co., ) 
World’s ( olumbian > 
Exposition Grounds. S 
Chicago, III., U. S. a., April 26, 1893. 
Messrs. Joseph Burnett & Co., 

Boston and Chicago. 

Gentlemen : It being our aim to use noth- 
ing hut the best, we have decided to use 
Burnett’s Flavoring Extracts exclusively, in 
the ice cream, cakes and pastries served in 
“The Great W’hite Horse’’ Inn, in the 
grounds of the World’s Columbian Expo- 
sition. Very truly yours, 

T. B. SEELEY, Manager, 
“ The Great White Horse ” Inn Co. 


The Restaurants that have contracted to use Burnett’s Extracts, exclusively, 

are as follows : 


WELLINGTON CATERING CO„ 
“GREAT WHITE HORSE” INN, 
THE GARDEN CAFE, 

woman’s building. 


COLmrBTA CASINO CO., 

THE GOLDEN GATE CAFE, 

NEW ENGLAND CLAM BAKE CO., 
BANQUET HALL. 


JOSEPH BURNETT & CO., BOSTON, MASS. 


WORTH A GUINEA A BOX.” 



PILLS 


CURE 

SICK HEADACHE, 

DISORDERED LIVER, ETC. 

They Act Like Magic on the Vital Organs, 
Regulating the Secretions, restoring long lost 
Complexion, bringing back the Keen Edge of 
Appetite, and arousing with the ROSEBUD OF 
HEALTH the whole physical energy of the 
human frame. These Facts are admitted by 
thousands, in all classes of^ Society, ^^rgest 


Sale in the World. 


O 


^ Covered with a Tasteless & Soluble Coating. 

Of all druggists. Price 35 cents a box. 
^ New York Depot, 365 Canal St. 







1 


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